


Man in Motion

by strictlyamess



Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: F/M, Heavy Drinking, M/M, Parent Death, Post-Grad Losers, Sexual Content, St. Elmo's Fire AU, it's just dramatic, it's not as dark as all these tags make it seem though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-17
Updated: 2018-06-17
Packaged: 2019-05-24 15:42:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 29,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14957432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strictlyamess/pseuds/strictlyamess
Summary: "I can't remember who met who first, or who fell in love with who first...all I can remember is the seven of us, always together."(a post-grad, inspired by St. Elmo's Fire love song to the Losers)





	Man in Motion

****They were all holding on to each other when they walked out past the gates of Amherst College and towards the end of the world.

 

Ben Hanscom was on the end, leaning out and away like he was blown separate from them by the wind - but he was smiling, he was looking back over sheepishly and sweetly because even in the moments he didn’t want or feel like he deserved to belong, he belonged.

 

Next to him was Eddie Kaspbrak, who looked absolutely smushed in between his friends even though Ben was giving him ample room on his right side. His cap was a little too big for his head, and as such it was a little bit too far down his forehead, which meant that his bangs were one hundred percent in his eyes. Still, he made no move to adjust or fix anything about his countenance - he just smiled and kept on, tripping over his own feet a little as he continued with his friends across the grass.

 

Richie Tozier was on Eddie’s other side, of course. (The ‘of course’ was bittersweet for both of them, but that wasn’t something either of them was ever going to be ready to acknowledge.) His laugh echoed through the streets of Amherst, and when he stumbled forward every few steps, he pulled Eddie, who was tucked sweetly under his right arm, along with him. He was the only one of the seven without uncertainty in his eyes. Quite the contrary, in fact - he had his head thrown back, and was smiling like he was invincible...and maybe, in that moment, he was.

 

Bill Denbrough, on Richie’s left, stood in direct contrast to Richie. Where Richie staggered, Bill stood upright, when Richie laughed, Bill’s mouth seemed to draw itself into a tighter line. Still, there was a promise in the clasp of their arms, and an understanding in the way that Bill monitored Richie, pulling him back upright when he started to lurch forward (as opposed to Eddie, who always, always, always got swept in). Theirs was a friendship with history, cemented in Bill’s responsibleness and kept fresh through Richie’s chaotic exploits.

 

Bill’s girlfriend Beverly Marsh walked on his other side, looking quietly up and down at the group and smiling to herself. She carried herself in an unassuming way, completely unaware of the natural grace and presence she had. Frequently, she looked up at Bill, presumably for some kind of affirmation, but more often than not she was met with the sight of him staring forward. Bill had always been preoccupied with the future, and that was going to be true more than ever now that they were graduates.

 

Beverly’s greatest confidante in school had been Stanley Uris, and he walked on her other side. The two of them were go-getters, and together they had formed a little clothing business during their time at Amherst. She made clothes, he handled finances, and between on-campus events and online sales, they’d accrued enough money that both of them were able to afford nice downtown apartments in Northampton when graduation rolled around. The whole endeavor had been Stan’s idea. He was shrewd, but kind, sharp, but gentle, and the most well put together of the seven of them. His walk matched his accomplishments - he stood with his shoulders back, leading with his hips and splaying his arms out over the shoulders of the people around him.

 

The last person in the lineup was Mike Hanlon, and Mike knew two things about the future they were confidently marching towards.

 

The first thing he knew was that there were no better people on Earth with which to face said future than the six people he was standing with.

 

The second was that nothing was going to change that - that this happy moment with the six people he loved most in the world was an infinite one.

 

Together, they were untouchable.

 

\----

 

Richie Tozier wanted so badly for things to be out of hand.

 

Sitting on the concrete a couple inches away from the ambulance that brought him to the hospital wasn’t bad on that front, but consequences were coming, and that totally harshed the vibe.

 

He’d had a little bit of something something, or a lot, who could remember - something had happened earlier, something fucking stupid, so he’d just decided to go for it when he’d gotten home, or to the party, or maybe both? Probably both. He hadn’t been this hammered since...hmm. Since when?

 

Two men were crowding his space and trying to ask him questions, but he didn’t know either of them, so he didn’t want to answer. Their starched blue uniforms reminded him of something. He reached out and tried to touch the shiny black belt of the person nearest to him, and was rewarded with a harsh nudge. They were trying to yank him to his feet. Why? All they were doing was jostling his REALLY expensive saxophone.

 

“Watch the sax,” he told them, exasperated, and then called out to (what he assumed was) the pretty ambulance attendant, “Do you believe in premarital sax?”

 

“Idiot.” Okay, THAT voice was unmistakably Bill Denbrough’s. The thing Richie didn’t want to remember was on the tip of his tongue, and he buried his hands in his shock of thick hair in an attempt to distract himself. It wasn’t working. Bill was still talking, and as long as Bill talked, Richie was going to remember. Sometimes he really hated Bill. “Muh-months out of undergrad, and st-still acting like life is a fucking frat party.”

 

Richie didn’t dignify that with a response. He was too busy. The men in blue were forcing him to his feet. He noticed vaguely that they were both wearing shiny silver badges, and one was mumbling into a piece of black plastic - a walkie-talkie?.

 

Wait. What the fuck was happening?

 

“You’re being arrested for drunk driving,” Bill said sharply. Richie blinked twice, and then nodded. That made sense. Something else was wrong, though - and not the Bill thing that he didn’t want to remember, something worse that he was _supposed_ to remember that he just...he just….

 

Fuck.

 

“I...yeah, drunk definitely,” he told Bill, cracking a smile, “driving...not so much.”

 

Bev was next to Bill, now, although Richie couldn’t tell you when she’d gotten there, or if she’d always looked so...torn? Upset? For what? She wasn’t the one getting arrested.

 

“What about Eddie, Richie?”

 

A flash of white light burst through Richie’s memories and caused him to lurch into the officer on his left. Shaking, he stumbled forward, pushing towards the hospital. THAT was the bad thing, the worst thing, the not-Bill mistake. Eddie had been in the fucking car. What kind of IDIOT had he been to drive drunk with Eddie fucking Kaspbrak in his fucking passenger’s seat?

 

The police officers didn’t let him get as far as the hospital. They seized him under the armpits and dragged him back almost immediately. Frantic, he turned to Bill, to Beverly, to Ben Hanscom, Mike Hanlon, and Stanley Uris, who had all materialized out of thin air. “Is he okay?”

 

“It’s pretty serious,” Bill informed him gravely, and that was like being steamrolled on to the pavement, those words right there. The tree hadn’t gotten him, so his conscience might as well go in…

 

“Yeah, he might actually exceed Sonia’s credit limit this time,” Stan replied, rolling his eyes, and Richie almost shouted out loud, because what the fuck kind of friends were they to make things so ambivalent? He was too fucking drunk for this...was he still holding his sax? He flexed his fingers just to make sure, and yes - there were the keys, warm from his body heat, gross…

 

“I’m okay.” Eddie’s voice was a cold windy gust of relief. Richie snapped his attention away from his saxophone again and looked up at Eddie, bracing himself for a gory, gruesome sight...but no, it was his same old deer eyes angel halo Eddie Spaghetti with one gauze bandage taped up on his forehead and his pastel blue inhaler clutched in his bony right hand. Richie felt his face split into a huge, toothy smile.

 

“Eds,” he said, trying to jerk his arms forward. He couldn’t; he was still being restrained, but Eddie seemed to appreciate the attempt.

 

“Don’t call me that,” Eddie replied fondly.

 

“I’m sorry, sweetheart, I’m so sorry.” Apologies tumbled out of Richie’s mouth before he even registered he was speaking. He hadn’t meant for things to get out of hand for Eddie. Any of the rest of them would have been fine, their mistake for getting in the car with him, whatever...but Eddie, Eddie, Eddie, _you’re so talented Richie_ , Eddie...

 

“I’m okay,” Eddie repeated, reaching out to touch Richie’s face. His hands were shaking. “Promise. We’ll be right behind you en route to the station.”

 

“Gonna bail me out again?” Richie asked softly, thinking broadly about all of the money, the love, the support he owed Eddie.

 

“Always.” Eddie backed up a couple of steps, fading into the throng of Bill and Ben and Mike. Richie sighed, tilted his head back, and let his body fall limp so as to give the police officers the hardest time possible in dragging his body back to their squad car. Behind him, he heard Stan’s low, flat voice, and squeezed his eyes shut, trying to concentrate on it.

 

“Sonia’s going to keep you in the house for months when she sees that hospital charge on the credit card bill,” he was saying, presumably to Eddie.

 

“The credit card bill?” Eddie asked, voice shaky. “Try the fact that my car’s totaled.”

 

“You can get a new car,” a third voice - Mike’s - offered, “but maybe what you should get instead is a little bit of common sense? Why didn’t you drive?”

 

Eddie’s response was meek. “Because he wanted to.”

 

Richie was shuffled into the back of a police car amidst a sea of groans, and while he knew he deserved them, he still felt them like lead in his gut. God fucking damn it. Getting drunk to escape feeling guilt wasn’t supposed to lead to _more_ guilt, and yet...

 

True to form, his friends bailed him out immediately after everything was filed and processed. Between Eddie’s trust fund, Stan’s international banking job, and Bill’s new salaried political position, the three of them scrounged up the money during the trip between the hospital and the police station (according to Bill, anyway - but who was to _really_ say whether or not Eddie had paid for all of it), and they had it ready as soon as bail was posted. When he was properly exited, all seven of them crammed themselves into Bill’s Toyota and headed off to find something else to occupy the rest of their night.

 

“St. Elmo’s?” Bill called, and they all called out in affirmation. None of them had expected him to suggest any place else. St. Elmo’s Bar belonged to them, it had been theirs in undergrad and it was still theirs now...and besides, Mike had to get back to work.

 

“Where the hell did you go?” The owner, Angelo, was waiting out front for Mike when they got back. Mike pushed his way over Ben’s lap and fell into the road. Richie watched him with interest, clamouring to get out of the car himself. He tried climbing over Eddie, but Eddie was as stiff as a board for some reason. Richie slid a hand along his cheek to see if he’d react to that, but Eddie just closed his eyes and leaned away, which...kind of stung.

 

“Odds on Mike getting fired again?” Ben asked as he followed Mike out and towards St. Elmo’s.

 

“He’s already fired,” Bill reminded him. “Angelo fired him last week.”

 

“And two weeks ago,” Stan continued, “and three weeks before that.”

 

“Odds are good, then,” Ben concluded. Richie was having a hard time paying attention to either Eddie or the conversation, given that both were occupying a great deal of his brain space and he couldn’t process either of them separately, so he slid over and out of the car in the opposite direction of Eddie in an attempt to escape everything and settle in with a new drink in front of him. He was two-thirds of the way sober now, and he wasn’t happy about it.

 

Almost immediately upon entering the bar, he locked on a target. There was a group of four undergraduate women giggling at a table near the back corner, and their self-esteem HAD to be low enough to let Richie take one or more of them home - one of them was in a tube top, for fuck’s sake. Ignoring his friends’ trek to their usual table entirely, he made a beeline for those girls, hoping to get one of them to buy him a drink. No one could accuse Richie Tozier of not being resourceful.

 

“Ladies,” Richie greeted, tossing his head a little to show off his hair.

 

The girls giggled. “Hey--”

 

“Oh, no you d-don’t.” Bill was back. He grabbed a handful of Richie’s collar, and kept his hand balled in the fabric there. Fuck. “I need a moment with Richard in the muh-men’s room, please.”

 

The girls tittered, and Richie had to fight not to roll his eyes. “Business or pleasure?”

 

“Your b-business, my pleasure,” Bill said, completely unaware of any and all entendres as per usual. He dragged Richie off to the bathroom before Richie could get a word in edgewise, and it was all Richie could do to hope that this had something to do with drugs.

 

“So…” Richie tried as they swept into the bathroom, past a pair of undergraduates that looked a little buzzed and a lot scared. “What this time.”

 

“Step into my office,” Bill offered, gesturing to the first bathroom stall. Richie stared down at the toilet trepiduously.

 

“For what, a little pick me up?” he asked, stepping forward warily. In response, Bill yanked back on his collar and then pushed him forward, dunking his head into the toilet bowl, and Richie was so taken aback he almost choked on it.

 

“Why didn’t you t-tell me you lost your job?!?” Bill asked furiously, and there it was - the other thing he didn’t remember, the thing he was actively TRYING to forget. “I guh-got you that job, Richie!”

 

“Thought you might take it poorly,” Richie muttered, glaring daggers back at Bill and trying to push the wet strands of hair that were in his face off to the side. “Can’t imagine why I’d think that.”

 

“Your lack of responsibility is ah-astonishing,” Bill informed him.

 

“You’re lucky the wet look is in, asshole,” Richie shot back, trying to get a glimpse of himself in a mirror. Most of it was covered in graffiti, which really sucked...but then again, a lot of the graffiti was Richie’s own doing, so he couldn’t complain. “I’ll get a new job. I’m sorry.”

 

“Bill, take it easy on him, okay--” Eddie burst into the bathroom, ten minutes too late. He took in Richie’s wet face and hair with a horrified expression. “Oh, gross.”

 

“C’mere, baby,” Richie held out his arms and began walking towards Eddie to freak him out. Eddie shrunk towards the door in terror and amazement.

 

“You just totaled his car, idiot. Don’t do it.” Stan was right behind Eddie, presumably there to provide clarity and reason in these dark, intoxicated times. Richie batted his eyelashes at him.

 

“Sweet talking will get you everywhere, Stanley, as well you know.”

 

“Suck my dick,” Stan responded neatly. “Remember those undergrads you were flirting with like a creepy old man? They’re leaving.”

 

With his eyes fixed on Eddie, Richie found that surprisingly, he wasn’t too sad about the girls’ departure.

 

“So let’s leave too,” he suggested, slinging an arm across Eddie’s shoulders and delighting in Eddie’s full-body recoil from being so close to toilet water. “Ready, Spaghetti?”

 

“Yeah, Rich,” Eddie responded quietly, “always.”

 

“It’s gotta be luh-less out of hand next time, Rich! There are cuh-cuh-consequences now!” Bill called after him, and Richie, being just about sober at that point, knew, knew, did not want to believe but knew he was right.

 

He kept his arm around Eddie anyway.

 

\----

 

“I think that if we can save a little bit of money, we can maybe decorate this space in a way that doesn’t make it look like a warehouse...maybe entertain here? Would you like that, Bill?”

 

Beverly Marsh had been in sweats and a t-shirt all day, trying to make the apartment she was renting look habitable. She and Bill were moving in together, so the challenge was really in making sure that it fit both of their tastes, which were…different, to say the least. He was looking to have something formal and straightforward - a perfect politician’s home, and she...well, she worked in fashion, and as such her heart clamoured for something a little bit...more.

 

Part of her wondered whether that wasn’t true of every aspect of her life. Her home, her job...maybe even…

 

Before she could reflect on the nature of her relationship, Bill responded. “Anything you need. We should huh-have a little extra cash to spare pretty suh-suh-soon...I’ve been talking to my friend B-Boris.”

 

“Boris, huh?” Bev frowned and wiped sweat from her forehead. She’d just finished rearranging the furniture, which had been one hell of a workout. “Doesn’t he work for that republican senator you hate?”

 

“Yep,” Bill said, popping the ‘p’. “And now so am I, st-starting next Wednesday.”

 

Holy shit.

 

“What?” she asked weakly, sinking down on to the newly positioned couch. “A republican, Bill? What happened to the man I fell in love with? Those convictions? That political drive?”

 

“He wants some home d-decorations,” Bill smiled thinly, “and he wants to start th-thinking about getting married.”

 

Groaning, she threw her arms over her face. He’d been dropping hints about marriage for two whole years, since their junior year at Amherst, and had been outright trying to initiate conversation about it since after graduation. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to marry him - it would be a sweet little life, being Mrs. Bill Denbrough - it was just...some kind of feeling she couldn’t shake, about him, about what it would mean to say yes to him so young. Some kind of intuition.

 

“I’m not ready,” she said shortly, hoping he wouldn’t push the issue any further.

 

“Then when?” Ugh. She should have known he wouldn’t let it go, in fairness to him. When he wanted something, he was completely myopic about it until he got it, and in this particular case, he really wasn’t in tune with her point of view.

 

She heard footsteps coming towards her, and uncovered her eyes enough to see Bill walking in the direction of the couch. He had a glass of amber liquid in each hand. Uncurling herself, she sat up a little straighter, and accepted the drink he offered her gratefully. They were going to need some alcohol in them to have this conversation.

 

“We’re only 23,” she reminded him, sipping at her bourbon.

 

“But we’re in love,” he countered, scooting to be closer to her. “Who cares how old we are, how young we are, wh-whatever? It’s marriage, Bev, it’s not p-prison.”

 

“It’s forever,” she said, looking down into her glass as if to try and glean support from it, “and I have some things I want to do first. I’ve just started in clothes retail - my goal is to transition into my own business in five years or fewer and then put myself in a position--”

 

“To retire at th-thirty-five, I know.” Bill finished her sentence and leaned back into the couch. “So do I have to w-wait until then?”

 

“That’s not fair--” Bev began, but was interrupted by two crisp knocks on the door.

 

Only one of their friends announced their arrival that way. Mike and Eddie had haphazard knocks, Ben usually knocked in a little pattern, and Richie would just let himself in like he owned the place. (He didn’t have a key, and that was on purpose...but usually, he did have some kind of bobby pin or paper clip, so there was really no stopping him.)

 

“Stan,” Bev and Bill said in unison, and with a low groan, Bill hoisted himself off of the couch and started for the door. Bev finished her bourbon in one neat swallow, put her empty glass on the table, and twisted around on the couch so as to be facing Stan when he came in.

 

Stan was barely three steps in the door before he began his critique. “Is this really the color we’re sticking with for your living room?”

 

“White’s traditional,” Bill defended, looking to Bev for assistance. She shrugged in response. She’d wanted to go with something more fun, like a blue or a purple, but that had gone over about as well as Bill’s marriage conversation when she’d brought it up, so...white it was.

 

“White’s boring as hell,” Stan said, fixing Bill with an exasperating look. “Is that what you want to project to the world, Bill? Boring as hell?”

 

“It’s safe.” Bill was sticking to his guns.. He had his arms crossed against his chest, and a sour look on his face...which meant that if Stan had come over expecting Bill to do him a favor, he had successfully just blown that for himself. “Wh-what do you want, Stan?”

 

“I hired a painting crew to do the inside of my apartment,” Stan explained breezily, maneuvering his way over to the kitchen and beginning to rummage through their cabinets, presumably for something to drink. Bev and Bill exchanged a look, but ultimately did nothing to stop him. “They’re going to need me out of the space for at least today and tomorrow. I was wondering--”

 

“Of course you can crash here,” Bev said quickly, before Bill could banish him to the streets. “Our couch is completely available.”

 

Bill opened his mouth to protest, but thought better of it after Bev gave him her best murderous expression. “I...sure. Far be it from me to g-get in the way of two old b-business partners.”

 

“That’s the spirit.” Stan had found what he was looking for - their alcohol - and raised a fifth of vodka in a little salute. “Thank you. Let’s have a toast, hm?”

 

“To what?” Bev headed over and grabbed glasses out of the cabinet, fully intending to partake in whatever Stan was trying to do. Something about the atmosphere of the room hadn’t been sitting right with her since Bill had brought up the subject of marriage, and she could use another drink.

 

“To the perfect couple,” Stan announced, pouring vodka measuredly into the three glasses that Bev had brought over, “and their perfect houseguest.”

 

“And their apparently mediocre apartment.” Bill brought his unfinished bourbon over from the living room and set it with the glasses of vodka. Bev wondered whether he was intending to drink both as part of the toast - it certainly seemed that way.

 

“To new jobs, as well,” Bev couldn’t resist adding on. Bill’s eyes flashed dangerously at that, but she persisted. “To the Republican Party.”

 

Stan wrinkled his nose. “Republican talk? In this, the house of the three year president of the Amherst College Dems?”

 

“Yeah, well.” Bill polished off the bourbon and reached for a glass of vodka. “What are a few abandoned muh-morals in the face of more muh-money, right?”

 

Bev half expected Stan to open his mouth and have an array of chastisements pour out, but instead, he drank his entire glass of vodka, put it down, winced, and then immediately began cackling.

 

“I always knew you were a republican!” he wheezed, laughs visibly rippling through his body underneath his fastidiously fitted and done-up button down. “Oh, Jesus Christ…or Jewish equivalent, whatever, doesn’t matter, I haven’t been to temple since I was sixteen. That’s so fucking funny.”

 

“It’s really not,” Bill responded lightly.

 

“Yeah, well, it’s been established at this point that your opinions and convictions are worthless, so.” Stan reached for the vodka to pour himself another shot. Apparently, he was looking to pass out on the couch rather than just sleep normally on it. “Speaking of feeling worthless, how are we thinking Ben’s doing these days with the self esteem? Hm? I was thinking about calling him in for a chat.”

 

“One of your infamous talks,” Bev chuckled, thinking back on exasperating nights where Stan wouldn’t answer business calls because he was in the middle of being Ben’s life coach.

 

Stan gave a wry smile. “Exactly. Seriously, though. He’s been such a downer lately. I thought doing newspaper work would be good for him.”

 

“We...actually haven’t seen him in a while,” Bev admitted, feeling the sting of guilt enter through her upper abdomen and seep down through her gut. She loved Ben very much, and the fact that he was sad and she hadn’t even noticed was sobering.

 

“We’ll invite him over,” Bill decided, taking the vodka from its position by Stan’s arm and pouring more for himself, too. “I want to t-talk to him about some th-things, too.”

 

Bev didn’t know why her stomach soured at that, but it absolutely did. “Excuse me,” she said, brushing past the two men and heading for the bathroom.

 

“Is she okay?” she heard Stan ask as she shut the bathroom door hurriedly.

 

“She’s mad b-because I’m talking about muh-marriage again,” Bill said quietly in return. “I don’t know why she d-doesn’t want to. She has to muh-marry me, Stan. I need her to.”

 

There was a pause, and then Stan spoke again in a biting, acidic tone. “Is this because of--”

 

“Shhh,” Bill hissed urgently. She didn’t hear anything else - apparently, the rest of the conversation was going to be carried out in whispers, which was so unsettling she could scream.

 

For all intents and purposes, she had the perfect life. She loved her friends, she loved her job, she had ambition and plans and finances and a budget, all by the age of 23.

 

She had a romantic future, too, if she wanted it. She loved Bill Denbrough - so much, more than she’d ever loved anyone except for her parents and family. He was her first grown-up love, and she knew how rare it was that she had the opportunity to have him be her only grown-up love.

 

But.

 

Something was brewing underneath these marriage proposals. There was some weirdness simmering under Bill’s perfect exterior - something pushing him into asking questions and making decisions far earlier than would be otherwise imagined or expected.

 

It looked like she was going to have to do the work of finding out what was going on, and she had a feeling she knew how to do it.

 

She’d invite Ben over for dinner tomorrow, and see how things turned out.

 

\----

 

_What’s the meaning of life?_

 

Ben Hanscom kept a little pad of paper in the breast pocket of his shirt on most days. One of his creative writing professors had given him the idea. “Jot down things that happen,” the man had advised, “things you think, things that give you pause. Anything can be inspiration, and sometimes you don’t know what’s going to drive you until you’ve reflected on it. Make sure you have a place to record and reflect.”

 

Ben’s classmates had been diligent about keeping their breast-pocket notebooks up, often taking them out and reading excerpts during class. None of the excerpts were particularly moving, in Ben’s opinion, so he didn’t really feel bad about the fact that there was only one sentence in his.

 

_What’s the meaning of life?_

 

Fuck if he knew. All he had to write down were the monotonous happenings at the newspaper and the drunken shenanigans of his friends. No one would ever want to read about the awkward small talk he made with his print editor, so that was out...and his friends read more like pulp fiction most days than like the characters of the Great American Novel he so desperately wanted to be inspired enough to put out.

 

“Ben, could you switch the stove on?” Beverly Marsh’s voice rang out from the bedroom of her new apartment. She’d invited him over to have dinner, and he had jumped at the opportunity. Anything to keep him from eating the same, sad meal that he had every night: instant oatmeal and bread and butter. He was a simple, cheap man, but he wasn’t a fool: he knew that he needed to have a vegetable once in a while or he’d die or get fat again, one of the two, so anything along those lines Bev was willing to offer him, he’d take.

 

Bev came waltzing into the room as he was reaching for the dial on her stove. The green sweater she was wearing kind of made her look like a Christmas tree - but not in a bad way, no, in a way that made her seem like she was lit up from the inside; in a way that made her look like...like…

 

“Thank you,” she said, not meeting his eyes as she made a beeline for a low cabinet. After rummaging for a moment, she came up with a pan, and turned back to him. “Grab the oil from the pantry?”

 

“Sure,” he agreed, heading to the double doors that he was pretty sure led to their new pantry. Behind him, Bev hummed in satisfaction, and he heard the refrigerator door open. _Vegetables_ , he thought, and smiled to himself.

  
_What’s the meaning of life?_ Vegetables, maybe.

 

She held out the pan for him as he came back with the oil, and he uncapped it swiftly and poured oil in until she seemed mollified. Once he was finished, she took the pan to where her chopped vegetables were waiting, and he put the oil down and went back to his drink.

 

That seemed to be her cue to jump into the most uncomfortable line of conversation she could possibly think of.

 

“So Bill wants to get married,” she said nonchalantly, putting the pan on the stove and collecting up her carrots and zucchini.

 

That was about the last thing Ben was expecting to hear. He inhaled sharply, and a little bit of his drink went down the wrong pipe. Coughing, he lurched forward, trying to get himself together. Bev turned to stare at him, covering her mouth with her hand. He didn’t know whether she was hiding a smile or not, but either way, it was pretty damn embarrassing.

 

“Why?” he asked when he was finally able to speak again. Bev just stared back down at him.

 

“Are you okay?” Bev asked blankly.

 

“Why?” he repeated, narrowing his eyes.

 

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “I think it’s political, honestly. White picket fence, two kids, portrait of a family by the fireplace. The pristine leader America deserves.”

 

That kind of American Dream propaganda made Ben feel a little bit sick to his stomach. He didn’t try to disguise his eye-roll as he told her, “I hope you’re not marrying him for _that._ ”

 

“No.” Bev added the vegetables to the pan and stirred thoughtfully. “I told him I wouldn’t marry him yet. Said that I had too many career aspirations.”

 

“Oh.” Ben felt significantly lighter. “Is that true?”

 

“Well, yes,” Bev began, and then stopped. She looked like she was debating whether or not to tell him something. When she started to speak again, her words came out slowly and carefully. “But I also want him to think about me, if that makes sense? Like. I won’t say yes until I know he’s listening to me and taking me seriously.”

 

Pride swelled in Ben’s chest, and he couldn’t help himself from walking over and putting a tentative hand on her forearm as she poked at the sauteing vegetables.

 

“He doesn’t deserve you,” he told her, as earnestly as he could manage.

 

She kept her eyes trained on the vegetables for a few seconds, and then slowly and sweetly turned her head towards him, rewarding his words with a soft smile. The sight made his breath catch in his throat.

 

_What’s the meaning of life?_

 

“Honey, I’m h-home!” Bill slammed the door, announcing his presence in the loudest and most obnoxious way possible. Ben winced - it was a move that he thought was beneath Bill, who was supposed to be more collected than not. Door slamming was usually reserved more for Richie, who always, always, always came and went in a crash of noise and energy. It made Ben wonder if things were changing more than he’d registered - if he was hearing the noise of undergrad life coming to a close for good.

 

“Rough day on the right wing, dear?” Ben muttered, shaken.

 

“Was that supposed to be a joke?” Bill asked, coming over to kiss Beverly on the cheek before leaving to deposit his coat and briefcase into the front hall closet. “Because you’re never going to get anything p-published if that’s what you’re trying to p-pass as humor, Hanscom. You knuh-know that, right?”

 

“You know what I think is really funny?” Ben asked hotly. “Republicans.”

 

Bev put her hand over her mouth again, and again, Ben couldn’t tell whether she was smiling or not. The uncertainty was really irking him for reasons he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Bill cursed loudly from the hallway, and Ben sighed and dug around in his pockets for the carton of cigarettes he’d bought last week.

 

It was going to be a long night.

 

“You’ve gotta stop tuh-telling people that, Bev,” Bill complained, coming back in and glaring daggers at Ben.

 

To her credit, she shrugged and didn’t look back around at him. “Our friends are all going to find out eventually. You’re not going to have any free time once the job starts full-time. Gonna be an empty chair at our table at St. Elmo’s.”

 

“Eh.” Bill shouldered off the comment. “Richie’ll fill it with someone, no duh-doubt. His romantic pursuit of the week, or wh-whatever.”

 

“Or maybe Eddie’ll finally get over Richie and bring somebody new around,” Bev joked, adjusting the stove and moving to get something from the fridge.

 

Bill laughed loudly at that. “More likely that Stan finally meets someone that fits his st-standards.”

 

“More likely than either of those things,” Ben finished, lighting his cigarette, “I finally finish a fucking article.”

 

Bill wasn’t done, though. “Most likely,” he pressed, “Bev gives in and agrees to muh-marry me.”

 

Ben’s eyes immediately darted over to Bev, who had frozen in place on her way back to the stove. She didn’t seem to want to look back at Bill; instead, she turned her face towards Ben, and Ben read the reluctance and uncertainty on it like it was his favorite book.

 

_What’s the meaning of life?_

 

“In fact,” Bill continued, “I’ve got some incentive.”

 

“Oh?” Bev tore her eyes away from Ben’s in order to try and suss out what Bill was scheming.

 

“Yep.” Bill pulled a package out from under the table. Ben blinked furiously at it, trying to figure out whether Bill had brought it in just now or if it had been there the whole time and he’d just missed it. It was wrapped in brown parcel paper, and tied with a string, and looking at it made Ben kind of want to punch something.

 

“What on Earth….” Bev muttered, crossing over to Bill and taking the gift from his hands. “Ben, could you stir the vegetables?”

 

 _Stir the vegetables_ , Bill mouthed at him smugly before fixing his eyes back on Bev to drink in her response to the present.

 

It was all Ben could do not to throw the vegetables in Bill’s goddamn face -- especially when Bev opened the parcel to find a bright red, skimpy nightgown.

 

“Put it on,” Bill suggested cheekily as Bev tried to decide how to react to what she had just opened.

 

Bev looked back at Ben again, as if hoping to find something in his face. Ben tried to project emotion back at her, but if she felt it, she didn’t register that she had. Instead, she turned back to Bill.

 

“Maybe I will,” she said softly, and Ben’s grip on the wooden spoon was so tight now that his knuckles had turned white. He considered flicking some of the ash from his cigarette into the food, but ultimately decided that even he wasn’t that petty. “Ben--”

 

“I know, I know.” He waved the spoon around, letting drips of hot oil fly off and land around the kitchen. He’d clean it up later. “The vegetables.”

 

Bev gave him one final, unreadable look, gently took the nightgown from Bill’s hands, and retreated into a back room. Once Bev was gone, Bill slid into Ben’s space like a magnet, hovering just inches from his left arm. He took the cigarette out of Ben’s mouth uninvited and took a long drag from it.

 

“Buy your own shit if you want to smoke, asshole,” Ben muttered, snatching the cigarette back. “What’s your deal tonight, huh? Talk about extremely loud and incredibly close.”

 

“You have to help me,” Bill said pointedly, staring straight into the side of Ben’s face. “Ben.”

 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Ben said honestly, tapping cigarette ash on to the floor. More for him to clean up later. Whatever. “I genuinely have no clue what the hell’s going on with you. Is this what all Republicans are like?”

 

“How’re you ever gonna write successfully if you can’t p-put things into p-p-perspective?” Bill asked. Ben wasn’t sure if his intention was to be mean, but that was the attitude he was currently achieving, and Ben felt it like he’d been shoved.

 

“You wanna try digging up inspiration in the Pioneer Valley? Be my guest,” Ben offered, registering too late that he, too, was being mean. Whatever Bill had brought into the house was catching.

 

“In another life,” Bill said somberly, “I could have been a writer.”

 

“Yeah, okay.” Ben considered putting his cigarette out on the counter, but thought better of it. He spotted an ashtray on one of the end tables in the living room, and started towards it. “Can you get the vegetables?”

 

Bill rolled his eyes, but acquiesced, taking the wooden spoon from Ben’s hands while Ben went to go extinguish the cigarette. “I can’t do this for much longer, Ben.”

 

“It’s just carrots,” Ben said, unsure of why Bill was this worked up about being made to do a simple household chore.

 

“No,” Bill replied, “not the c-carrots. She has to muh-marry me.”

 

Ben squinted back at him. “Why?”

 

Bill didn’t say anything in response, but the desperation and guilt in his eyes when he looked over at Ben was enough to tell Ben everything he needed to know...and if he wasn’t a fan of Bill’s behavior before, this was the final nail in that proverbial coffin. His entire rapport with Bill was dust, just like that.

 

“You slimy bastard,” he began, but couldn’t finish - Bev was in the doorway, and he absolutely could not be the one to break Bill’s news to her. No...that was for Bill to do himself. Bill needed to own it.

 

She wasn’t wearing the nightgown. She was wearing a threadbare pair of L.L. Bean flannel pajamas. They were sunburn red, clashed horribly with her hair, and made Ben’s heart _‘tha-thump’_ so loudly that he was sure the entire apartment building could hear it.

 

_What’s the meaning of life?_

 

“Come on, B-Bev,” Bill complained, dropping the spoon in favor of getting a better look at her. “I don’t think--”

 

“Bill,” she said, smiling a secret smile. He stopped, looking at her inquisitively, and with a small giggle, she peeled back the shoulder of the pajamas to reveal a red, lacy strap.

 

Ben wordlessly headed back to the kitchen to take over the vegetables again. He knew where this was headed.

 

When Bev and Bill excused themselves to the bedroom mere moments later, he took a pen and his little notebook out of his breast pocket and wrote, for the first time since undergrad.

 

Well, more accurately, he drew - a pair of eyes that he couldn’t color with the black ink pen he currently had, but every time he looked at them he’d see forest green in his mind and know.

 

_What’s the meaning of life?_

 

Sighing, he turned off the stove and took the vegetables off of the heat.

 

He'd known the answer to his question for a long time.

 

\----

 

Bill Denbrough hadn’t actually had to read _The Scarlet Letter_ in high school, but he knew enough about it from his friends that had suffered through it that he felt pretty safe in feeling like he felt a little bit like Hester Prynne with that big, glaring ‘A’ on her chest.

 

He wasn’t anything like Hester Prynne, really. The situations just weren’t the same. For starters, the entire town had known about Hester’s shame, and in Bill’s case, the only people that were privvy were Richie (who was keeping a secret for the first time in his goddamn life), Stan, and now Ben - or so he assumed, anyway.

 

There was also the fact that Hestor hadn’t actually slept around, perse. No, she’d only had intercourse with one man, and for that, she was branded a harlot. Bill supposed that was sexist, but he didn’t have enough experience or, frankly, interest in the subject to say.

 

Bill hadn’t yet been publicly branded a harlot, even with the fact that he’d had way more love affairs than Hestor had...but he couldn’t help but feel kinship with her anyway. It felt like everywhere he went, people could tell.

 

_That’s the new hire over at the GOP._

 

_I hear he slept with that new blonde intern.”_

 

_Doesn’t he have a girlfriend?_

 

_Who else has he been sleeping with?_

 

_Who’s going to tell Beverly Marsh?_

 

The whispers were all only in his head at this point, but they still haunted him in the most secret part of his heart. Beverly had to marry him. It was going to be the only way to keep him faithful.

 

He tried, of course, to stay away from other women. His sexual voracity really couldn’t be helped; he’d never had much luck with staying away from people he found attractive, and that had always been true. Even in the early days with Bev, when he’d been working hard to impress her because he knew she was marriage material, he had been screwing what amounted to just about a third of the girls in the dorm next door - some fifteen girls, over the course of two years.

 

He didn’t regret it, but it was time for all of that to end. He was trying to be an adult person now - and a successful one too, at that. Why else would he have taken a job in a Republican senator’s office?

 

She had to marry him. He was going to go fucking insane if she didn’t.

 

“Thoughts on this couch?” She approached him now, eyes questioning beneath her big sunglasses. He could barely see her, in fact, under all of the vibrant fabric she had draped over and around her. He frowned, and pinched at her makeshift purple sleeve.

 

“Did you wind all of the c-curtains in all of J.C. Penney’s around you to make this d-dress?” he asked her, glancing around to make sure that nobody else they knew was in the store.

 

“I didn’t,” Bev replied evenly. “Mike did.”

 

“Mike, c’mon, man,” Bill complained, ignoring Bev’s couch selection entirely and walking further into the store to find where his friends were inevitably goofing off. “Let’s be p-professional.”

 

He didn’t find anyone in the perfume department or by the jewelry, so he continued on into the men’s clothing section, pushing through the racks of cheap department store chinos towards the racks of ties and belts, where someone was giggling loudly.

 

“Is this adult b-behavior, Edward?” he asked coldly, turning the corner to glare at Richie, who was trying to fasten a belt around Eddie’s head like a huge, crazy headband. Eddie turned to face him, eyes like saucers, and immediately started trying to push the belt off.

 

“Sorry, Bill,” he said, voice very small.

 

“It’s not his fault,” Richie said, voice almost overlapping with Eddie’s. “Don’t put my shit on him, okay? He’s--”

 

“Bill, I was trying to show you a couch.” Bev was pushing her way through the racks to join them, and by the sounds of it, she wasn’t alone - she’d found Ben or Stan or Mike, or maybe all of them. “This could have waited, no?”

 

“No,” Bill argued, “I don’t want to be embarrassed if I see someone I ruh-recognize, and they nuh-need to--”

 

“Relax.” Mike had reached them first. He put a soothing hand on Bill’s shoulder. “You don’t have to be Big Bill all the time. We’re still young, right? We’re okay.”

 

It turned out that Bev had managed to rally the rest of the troops. She stepped out behind Mike, and was immediately followed by Stan and Ben, who were quietly discussing the merits of ascots as they waited for the tension to dissipate.

 

“Wuh-whatever,” Bill muttered, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets. “Just don’t be fucking stupid.”

 

“Too late.” Richie had wrapped his arms around Eddie’s waist from the back and was rocking them back and forth, which had caused Eddie’s face to contort into a conflicted half-grimace. The belt was still wrapped around Eddie’s head - Bill suspected it was stuck in his hair. “We were stupid when you met us.”

 

“If that means you luh-lost yet another juh-juh-job,” Bill warned, fixing Richie with his best warning stare, “I will p-personally ensure that none of us b-bail you out the next time the c-c-cops haul you off in ch-chains.”

 

“You all should stop wasting your money on me anyway.” Richie waved Bill off with a dismissive flick of his wrist. “But no, still doing that pollster gig...as far as I know, no one’s fired me yet.”

 

“You should try and go pro with your saxophone,” Eddie suggested quietly, curling his fingers around Richie’s forearms. “You’re really talented, Richie.”

 

Richie laughed and blew a raspberry into the side of Eddie’s head. “Hear that, guys? Eddie thinks I’m saxy.”

 

“Eddie’s tone-deaf,” Stan reminded everyone, smiling cheekily, “and we’ve probably overstayed our welcome in here. Are we almost ready to go?”

 

“You gonna look at that couch, Bill?” asked Mike, who wasn’t looking up - he was preoccupied with the selection of belts in front of him. “And do we think any of these belts are lawyer belts? Should I buy one to look professional?”

 

“All belts are lawyer belts.” Richie unwound himself from around Eddie, grabbed a belt, and stretched it between his hands, looking at Mike with a glint in his eye that suggested that if Mike weren’t swift, he, too would end up with a belt stuck in his hair.

 

“Explain,” Mike demanded, backing up warily and ending up running into a rack full of paisley patterned shirts.

 

“Boring!” Richie lunged, and they both toppled backwards into the paisley rack, shrieking (in Mike’s case) and cackling (in Richie’s).

 

“ENOUGH.” Bill couldn’t believe that they were disrespecting him so blatantly after he had just asked for everyone to stop acting like children. If Mike wanted to be a lawyer, he was going to have to learn to reel himself in sooner rather than later...and as for Richie, if he didn’t start taking himself seriously pretty immediately, his future was going to start slowly slipping through his fingers until he eventually came up completely and totally empty. “Go pay for your stuff and get in the car. We’re not getting a couch today.”

 

Bev looked at him with eyes that suggested that the conversation about his snappishness was not closed, and he couldn’t help the sigh that ripped its way from his lungs. He didn’t understand what she wasn’t seeing about the general lack of maturity of the group. Every reaction he had and request he made was for their benefit. They’d thank him later.

 

“Adulthood is so boring,” Eddie complained, blowing his bangs out of his eyes as Ben tried to untangle his hair from the belt-headband. It was looking more and more like he was going to have to buy it and cut it free.

 

“You won’t be saying that once you move out of your mother’s house and get your own apartment,” Stan promised, and Mike and Ben murmured in agreement. Bill felt himself nodding as well - the independence of living in your own space was proving freeing in a way that college had never been.

 

Well, mostly freeing. He looked back over at Bev to find that her attention had been drawn away by the blonde salesgirl behind the counter with the big, green eyes and the thick thighs and….oh, God, Bill had slept with her just last week, hadn’t he? When he’d come in to get the nightgown for Bev? Damn it.

 

The girl looked up, and he prayed she wouldn’t meet his eyes. He couldn’t have this encounter now - not with Bev there, or even Eddie or Mike, who would undoubtedly sniff things out and make things more complicated than they already were.

 

No, he would be better served to sneak out the back, here - but how was he going to manage it?

 

“I just remembered,” he lied, backing up and almost running into that same toppled paisley rack as before, “I left my wallet in the car. I’ll be right back.”

 

“I didn’t think you were buying anything,” Bev said, obvious concern apparent in the fact that she was gripping the three sweaters she was holding so tightly that her knuckles were white.

 

“I’m gonna pay for you,” Bill said, because it was the first thing he could think of that made sense. As soon as the words left his mouth, he bit the inside of his cheek, already quietly regretting that promise. She had a steady job and could pay for herself, and more importantly, those sweaters were fucking expensive.

 

“Bill--” she said warningly, but he was off like a proverbial shot towards the back doors, needing to be away from that salesgirl before she recognized him, or worse, before he lost control of himself.

 

He felt Ben’s eyes boring holes into his back on his way out, and if he hadn’t suspected that Ben had figured out what was going on before, he knew now that Ben was completely in the loop.

 

He’d talk to Ben later in the week and make sure that he had his story straight. Hell, maybe Ben could help him scrounge up some self-control. Ben was the king of self-control.

 

Maybe Ben was the key to getting Beverly Marsh to say yes to marrying him.

 

If he wasn’t, Bill was running out of options, and there was really nothing more devastating than knowing that your fiance learning about your dishonesty is inevitable.

 

She had to marry him, and that was the bottom line.

 

\----

 

Living at home after the relative freedom of college fucking sucked, and no one knew that better than Eddie Kaspbrak.

 

Granted, it wasn’t his home-home - his childhood home was tucked away in upstate New Hampshire, near the White Mountains and the tourist traps (Storyland, anyone?), and was probably occupied by some other white nuclear family by now. No, Sonia Kaspbrak would rather have died than live more than thirty minutes away from her precious, delicate son, so when Eddie accepted his offer to Amherst, she’d immediately begun researching property in the area. Eddie had protested, but he couldn’t stop her - money wasn’t an issue, as his father had left them an incredible sum of money upon passing, and so there was really nothing standing in her way, Eddie’s opinions and hopes included.

 

He’d kept her out of his life as much as he possibly could in undergrad, spouting lies like _“I have to live in the dorms, mama, they won’t let me commute”_ and _“My friends are all just so busy, mama - but I’ll let you know if they’re ever available to meet”_ , but now that he was back with her - well, suffice it to say that he’d picked up some habits that she didn’t approve of.

 

“All this spending, Edward,” she had fussed, poring over the last month’s credit card statement for what had to be the fifteenth time. “Why do you spend so much time at that disgusting bar? St. Elmo’s is crawling with sexually transmitted diseases and homosexuality, last I heard.”

 

“Heard from who?” Eddie muttered under his breath. Sonia rarely left the house most days - Eddie genuinely didn’t know who she knew or didn’t know in the area. It was probably pretty safe to assume that she had just...projected a reputation on to the bar, because it was a place where young people hung out.

 

“And a charge from a music store?” Sonia tutted, tapping her finger on the charge as if it were an ant she could squash out. “Sweetheart, you are an extremely talented boy, but you know as well as I do that music is just not ever going to be a good decision for you--”

 

“It was to help Richie,” Eddie said unthinkingly. “Richie’s talented.”

 

Sonia looked up from the credit statements, narrowing her eyes, and Eddie realized fifteen seconds too late exactly what he had done.

 

“You know,” she began slowly, and Eddie cringed at how much that particular tone of voice from her made him feel like fingers were creeping up his neck, “Richard is the only person from your little group of friends whose acquaintance I have not made.”

 

Eddie pulled anxiously at his collar, weighing his options. He’d kept Richie away from his mother on purpose, of course. The rest of his friends were at least decent at pretending to be civilized in front of other human beings (he’d had Bill over every other week for the past three months because he put up such a good front), but there was no way that Richie was ever going to be anything but out of control. He was a good actor and covered up a lot of shit through his various affects, but ultimately, tamping down his wildness was next to impossible.

 

There was also the obvious, awful matter of the feelings for Richie that he just couldn’t fucking shake. Those feelings were like a fly in the room that was his life - sometimes the focal point, sometimes forgotten, always annoying, and virtually unkillable.

 

Anyways. The point was that he was planning on never coming out to his mother if he could help it (because loathe as he was to admit it, he continued to need money from her), and as such, it was highly important that Richie Tozier stay far, far away from any and all Kaspbrak family events.

 

On the other hand, though...maybe seeing Sonia and Richie square off would help him finally extinguish those pesky, destructive feelings for good.

 

After spending a few more seconds than could be considered strictly necessary on the decision, Eddie responded. “He could probably come to dinner sometime this week. I’ll ask.”

 

“That would be excellent,” his mother said, pursing her lips as she went back to reviewing her expenses.

 

Now, it was “sometime this week”, and Eddie was sitting at the dinner table, regretting all of the choices he had made in his entire life up to that point. Richie had arrived in a surprisingly presentable outfit (probably thanks to Stan), which had given Eddie a little hope for the evening, but that hope had quickly dissipated as Richie poured more and more wine into his glass and Sonia’s glare got sharper and sharper.

 

“Where did you and Edward meet, anyway,” Sonia was asking, jabbing erratically at her almond crusted salmon with a ferocity she usually reserved for complaining about the neighbors or cursing out game-show contestants.

 

“Prison,” Richie replied neatly, flashing Eddie a wine-stained smile as he took another drink. He hadn’t touched any of his food - presumably in an attempt to get as hammered as possible.

 

“Have you heard from your sister lately, mama?” Eddie tried, desperately attempting to get the conversation back on track. It was a terrible topic, and he knew it, but he would take anything he could get at that point.

 

“No.” Sonia shut down that topic swiftly. “What are your ambitions, Richard?”

 

“Just Richie, please,” Richie asked, for what had to be the thousandth time that evening. “And I’m...still figuring things out.”

 

“My Eddie-bear says you have some musical ability,” she pressed, searching his face like she was trying to see directly into his brain. Eddie was pretty sure that if she could actually see what Richie was thinking, it would be _‘Eddie-bear, Eddie-bear, Eddie-bear’_ on loop - Richie hadn’t heard that particular Sonia nickname for Eddie before, and Eddie knew that he had far from heard the last of it from him. In fact, it was a small miracle that Richie hadn’t said anything already. “It seems he made a purchase for you quite recently.”

 

“Oh, yeah, that was...your son is…” Richie trailed off, looking at Eddie with a helplessness that Eddie didn’t really understand. “Yeah. I play sax.”

‘

“Classically?” Sonia was laying traps for Richie, and everyone at the table knew it. “Tenor, alto, or baritone? Or perhaps soprano?”

 

Richie stared at her for a moment, looked down into his drink, and then pushed his chair back and out from the table. “May I be excused?”

 

“Oh, well, we’ve just started with the entree--”

 

Richie wasn’t listening. He nodded mechanically, got up, and moved towards the hallway on auto-pilot. Sighing, Eddie took his napkin off of his lap and put it on the table.

 

“Is he some sort of charity case of Bill Denbrough’s?” Sonia, by some miracle, seemed more confounded than repulsed. “Did he really go to Amherst with the rest of you?”

 

“I’m going to go get him, mama,” Eddie told her, excusing himself from the table hurriedly. “Keep eating - don’t wait up.”

 

“Eddie--” she called, but if there was anything he was willing to cross his mother over, it was Richie Tozier, for whatever goddamn fucking piece of shit reason.

 

He had a good idea about where Richie had run off to (he wouldn’t have been so bold as to leave), and as he shuffled up the steps after him, he tried to think back on the time in his life Before Richie (his life was split that way, after all - B.R. and A.R. were the monikers he used to distinguish between the two eras of his existence). He had genuinely no recollection of how he used to have fun. He just couldn’t remember. Nothing had been funny B.R., nothing had been interesting - just the usual bullying, the classic conservative, small-town gay experience. His classmates had figured things out before he had, and as such, his life had been pretty goddamn miserable between the ages of 12 and 17. Things had come to a head at one of the end-of-year bonfires his classmates threw during his junior year of high school - one of the douchebags in his AP Bio class had publicly and humiliatingly outed him to almost the whole school, and from that point on the hatred and stares had been almost unbearable. Even though he’d spent his whole life ragging on Massachusetts with the rest of the population of New Hampshire, he had never been more relieved than when he’d gotten his admittance to Amherst. It was a ticket to a better life.

 

He hadn’t banked on revealing or even acknowledging his sexuality at Amherst - he was there to start fresh, after all - but after he met Richie, all bets on everything were off.

 

The group of them had met because they were in the same hall as freshmen. That’s literally all that it was - lucky geography. Sonia had insisted that Eddie be in a single, so he’d invited people over a lot in the early days in a desperate attempt to know what it felt like to have friends, and the people that had shown up had just...never left. In fact, after all of two days, Stan had practically moved in with him, claiming that Richie’s mess was going to turn sentient and kill him. (Richie had gone on to room with Bill the next year, for obvious reasons.)

 

Richie had initially only stopped in to try and snoop on what Stan was doing, but as soon as he entered the room, everything had turned electric. He’d pushed his too-long curls out of his eyes, grinned that stupid sideways smile, and raised his eyebrows at Eddie, and Eddie’s life hadn’t been the same since. He didn’t know what had compelled Richie to continue to hang with him, but he was equal parts grateful for it and devastated by it. It was an awesome, crazy, agonizing way to live.

 

The worst part, probably, was that things would have been picture-perfect if Richie had felt the same way. (And it wasn’t even that he wasn’t straight - no, Richie was bisexual, which was a fact that Eddie dwelled upon when he really felt like torturing himself. Richie was bisexual and he still hadn’t ever paid attention to or made a pass at Eddie, which was the number one contributing factor to Eddie’s poor self esteem.)  As it was, it was just too late for the two of them now. They knew each other too well...and Richie liked sleeping around too much for serial monogamist Eddie.

 

Eddie reached his destination - the window next to his bed - and slid it open. Bracing himself, he leaned over and out of it, and turned his head to the right.

 

Richie was exactly where Eddie had thought he might be: on the roof, looking up at the stars.

 

“This is hardly the roof of your old frat house,” Eddie said softly, trying not to startle Richie into lurching forward and tumbling down two stories. Richie whipped around like he’d been caught doing something terrible, but relaxed when he saw that it was only Eddie.

 

“I miss crawling out on to those shingles,” Richie admitted, deliberately not meeting Eddie’s eyes. “I used to go there when Bill would stress me out by talking about the future.”

 

“I’m sorry that my mom stressed you out,” Eddie said, easily putting two and two together. “I told you that she’s actually the worst. Now you know.”

 

Richie studied the side of the window. “That’s not going to keep me from making jokes about her, probably.”

 

“I know.” Eddie couldn’t help the fondness that leaked its way into his voice. He opened the window a little bit wider, and climbed out to join Richie, shivering slightly upon experiencing the subtle night breeze.

 

Once Eddie was situated next to Richie, they stargazed in silence for a moment. Richie’s pinky kept brushing up against Eddie’s hand, and Eddie kept having to furiously remind himself that Richie was drunk and none of his actions meant anything in particular.

 

“It’s hard,” Richie finally said, breaking the silence but keeping his eyes trained on the sky. “I’m not really cut out for this post-college life, I think.”

 

Eddie didn’t like the sound of that. There was no hope in it. “There’s gotta be something good about it, no? What about the job you have now?”

 

Richie tore his eyes from the stars to give Eddie an incredulous look over the rims of his glasses. “Seriously? Fuck that Bill Denbrough shit. I’d rather shove my whole saxophone up my ass than go to work most days.”

 

“Then….” Eddie trailed off, not really sure where Richie was going with this.

 

Richie barked out a high, anxious laugh, and smiled helplessly. “Beats me. Some days, when it all gets too much, sometimes I think…” He began to gesture to the ground, insinuating that he might jump, and then thought better of it, snapping his eyes in Eddie’s direction in an attempt to gauge Eddie’s reaction.

 

Eddie felt the panic rising in his throat, and wanted to grab Richie - to tell him how it felt to lose a person that was so much a part of you that their passing felt like an amputation, to tell him that he couldn’t do that again - but he shoved it all back down and nodded, trying his best to ignore his own trembling hands.

 

“Please don’t,” is what he settled on saying, so quietly that Richie had to strain to hear him. He cringed at the sound of his own voice - he sounded so small, so weak, so much the kid that they’d bullied him for being in high school.

 

“I wouldn’t,” Richie hastily said, putting a hand on Eddie’s knee that Eddie felt like it was on fire. “But like...do you ever…?” He made the same gesture towards the ground. “You don’t have to answer, but I thought--”

 

Eddie thought back on all of the bad days he’d had over the course of his lifetime - all of the sad thoughts he’d procured, and the promises he’d made himself, and knew that his answer was definitive.

 

“Not while I’m still a virgin,” he said, forcing his way through the sentence for the sake of telling Richie the truth.

 

Richie’s hand tightened on Eddie’s knee, and Eddie thought fleetingly that he wouldn’t have to jump off of the roof to kill himself - Richie was doing it for him, right here and right now.

 

“Why didn’t you tell me you were still a virgin?” he asked, voice low and rough in a way that was going straight to Eddie’s nerves, and kind of also to his dick.

 

“Need-to-know information,” Eddie said quickly, patting Richie’s hand on his knee lightly in an attempt to make the whole thing seem more friendly. It really wasn’t working. Eddie could feel Richie scooting closer, and it was making the hairs on his neck stand up.

 

And then….Richie climbed over him and back towards the window.

 

“It’s cold,” he said by way of explanation, and Eddie allowed himself the luxury of burying his face in his hands for thirty seconds before following behind.

 

He needed to get over this stupid crush. It was ruining his life.

 

“So we’re going back down to dinner?” Eddie asked as he maneuvered up and over the windowsill.

 

“Negative.” Richie was waiting for him when he got inside, perched tenuously on the end of Eddie’s giant sea of a bed and holding his glasses in his hands. Eddie wasn’t sure why he had them off, and he wasn’t sure he liked it - no glasses made Richie’s eyes look kind of beady. “Sonia K will have to make do without me for a minute, hard as that may be...and speaking of hard--”

 

“Haven’t I laughed at enough of your jokes?” Eddie asked desperately, bravely fitting himself next to Richie on the bed. “Can’t you spare me, just this once?”

 

“Spare you?” Suddenly, Eddie felt fingers on his jaw - Richie had grabbed his face and turned it towards him. He had put his glasses down next to him on the bed, and he was examining Eddie with a very particular nearsighted focus. Eddie felt a sudden need to rummage in his nightstand drawer for his spare inhaler. _Too close, Richie, too close…_

 

“Just once,” Eddie whispered, feeling like he couldn’t be that close to Richie’s face and still speak at a normal volume.

 

“Got any suggestions for shutting me up?” Richie whispered back, and Eddie could almost feel the smile that was curling up the edges of Richie’s mouth.

 

“Don’t be an id---” but the phrase was cut off by Richie, who had sloppily and inelegantly mashed his mouth against Eddie’s. Eddie’s brain immediately ceased every single one of its functions, and it took him a minute to remember his own name, let alone where he was and what he was doing, but after an awkward amount of time spent holding still while Richie did his best to kiss Eddie’s inanimate form, he jumped into action and kissed back, pouring all of himself into the places where he was touching Richie. Richie responded with obvious delight: he chuckled into Eddie’s (now open) mouth and slid his hands across Eddie’s shoulder blades and down, down, down…

 

Eddie should have been expecting the ass grab, but it still managed to take him by surprise somehow. He jumped back, eyes wide, which made Richie flinch, too.

 

“Sorry,” he squeaked. All the blood in his body was either rushing up to his face or down to his dick, and as such he felt justified for being a little light-headed. “You know I’m never….I don’t…”

 

“Peace,” Richie smiled, seeming to sense and understand Eddie’s hangups. He cupped Eddie’s chin questioningly, and Eddie let his eyes flutter closed, let Richie’s mouth move over his, let Richie’s hands start to wander again - although over the front of Eddie, this time, skimming over Eddie’s chest and stomach as he moved his lips to Eddie’s jaw, his neck, his collarbone.

 

God, how many times had he imagined a first time with Richie? Richie was, incredibly, a better kisser in real life than he was in Eddie’s fantasies (which probably said something about the amount of faith that Eddie had in Richie, but that was neither here nor there), and seemed to be working extra hard to make sure that Eddie was comfortable, was happy….

 

_Why didn’t you tell me you were still a virgin?_

 

Suddenly, Richie’s mouth was too wet and his body was radiating too much heat, and Eddie was suffocating. He pushed his way out of Richie’s grip and off of the bed, and moved to stand over by the closet, needing some serious air.

 

“Eds, what’s the issue?”

 

Eddie looked once at Richie, and then had to look away. His lips were swollen and obscenely red, his face was flushed and open, and the utter debauchedness of the whole image made Eddie’s stomach twist dangerously.

 

Eddie clenched his fists, and willed himself to think cold, hard thoughts.

 

“I don’t want to be your pity fuck,” he told the wall in front of him, taking pains to be as sharp as possible.

 

He heard Richie exhale heavily behind him.

 

“That’s not what this is about, Eddie.”

 

“Then why haven’t we done this before now?” Eddie snapped, turning back towards Richie against his better judgement. Richie had his hands in his lap, now, and looked very small - like a little boy being chastised. “Just...suddenly, Eddie’s a virgin, so he’s interesting? Or - better save Eds some embarrassment and get him laid already?”

 

Richie didn’t respond, just shuffled his feet - and that was answer enough.

 

“I think you should go home,” Eddie told him, feeling hot tears prick at the corners of his eyes.

 

“Eddie,” Richie said softly, slowly, heartbreakingly, and Eddie let one traitorous tear fall down his cheek.

 

“Actually, we probably shouldn’t see each other for a while,” he continued, voice wavering dangerously. “It’ll be easier.”

 

“Eddie,” Richie repeated, more insistently this time. “Eds.”

 

“Leave, Richie.”

 

After a moment of tense silence, Richie acquiesced, walking over to the door in two long strides and closing it behind him. Downstairs, Eddie heard him bid goodbye to Sonia, and then he heard the loud click of the front door closing.

 

“Eddie-bear,” Sonia yelled up the stairs once Richie was safely outside. “Is Richard all right?”

 

“He’s fine, mama,” Eddie said, as loudly as he could manage without betraying the fact that tears were streaming down his face. “We probably won’t see him again.”

 

“Oh.” Sonia paused, presumably reflecting on Richie’s behavior. “Good.”

 

It was good, wasn’t it? It was good to keep Richie away for a while. It would be good.

 

“Good,” Eddie repeated to himself, pinching the bridge of his nose and willing himself to stop crying. “Good.”

 

\----

 

“Weekend plans, Uris?”

 

Stan looked up from his paperwork for the first time in several minutes, and immediately felt woozy. He’d gotten so lost in the numbers and categorization of what he was doing that he’d almost forgotten where he was.

 

“Who’s asking?”

 

“Are you okay?” In Stan’s attempt at reorienting, he’d apparently missed the blaringly obvious fact that smart, sharp Patricia Blum was standing at the opening to his cubicle, one hand on one jauntily cocked hip. He felt a blush begin to creep up his neck, and squeezed his eyes shut, willing it back down.

 

He didn’t have time for pithy office crushes. He had work to do - he had _ambition._

 

It was funny, Stan thought, how drastically ambition changed things. He’d entered Amherst somewhat aimlessly, choosing economics as a major only because he felt that ornithological studies was perhaps too impractical, and he likely would have continued to drift if he hadn’t stumbled into the exact friend group he’d stumbled into.

 

The first person to light a metaphorical fire under Stan’s ass was Bill Denbrough, of course. Stan’s relationship with Bill had evolved over the years, but in the early days of their relationship, Stan had looked up to Bill with a kind of zealous passion. In fact, they all had - Bill was the hero of their little band of 20 year olds, and virtually everything they did, they did because he wanted them to. Stan spent months watching Bill studying hard, and had mimicked him exactly...and in doing that, he discovered that he really liked economics, liked studying, liked all of it.

 

Then later, when Bill’s influence was still potent but not encompassing like it had been, Stan and Bev had launched their miniature fashion business. The rush of succeeding with that had sealed the deal for Stan - there was a part of him that really loved the part and parcel nature of running a business, and if he could take that particular skill to the bank, then why shouldn’t he? The decision to go into business after graduation was a quick and effortless one, and he had no regrets about it.

 

He imagined most of his friends could say the same about their career choices. They were gearing up to be an impressive bunch, what with Bill in politics, Mike in law school, Eddie doing social work, Bev making strides with fashion, Ben penning the next Great America Novel....

 

Maybe someday, even Richie might figure out how to get his shit together.

 

Maybe.

 

“Earth to Stanley,” Patricia tried again, and Stan blinked back at her, head spinning.

 

“Sorry, Patty,” he said lamely, putting his pen down in one of the two pencil holders he kept on his desk. “Were you saying something?”

 

“Well, I asked about weekend plans,” Patty said, tapping a pen against her bottom lip, “but we could talk about other stuff, too - the scary budget cuts around here, for example?”

 

“The horror,” Stan said dryly, smiling up at her, “the horror.”

 

“Or we could talk about whatever it is that’s distracting you,” Patty offered, a knowing look in her eyes, “if you want to.”

 

Patty was usually a pretty perceptive person, but apparently today was not a good day for her powers of observation. Stan couldn’t help but chuckle at just how off the mark she was this time.

 

“I’m just here to do my work, Patty,” he told her as earnestly as he could manage. “My friends have problems and I resolve them, usually, but here I’m only ever interested in getting work done.”

 

“Obviously.” Patty took a few more steps into his cubicle and peered over his shoulder at the documents he had been poring over a minute ago. “Ooh, the Ellington account?”

 

“Classified,” Stan said quickly, moving to cover the file up with his hands.

 

She laughed, loudly and voraciously, and Stan couldn’t help but grin back at her. Stan loved her laugh. It was brash, ugly, and unapologetic, and when he heard it from a few cubicles away he always found the corners of his own mouth turning up. Being the cause of it now was….it was... _something._

 

Thoughts of that nature were usually a pretty good sign that Stan was in too deep with his feelings. He needed to do something to get Patty out of his cubicle.

 

“I like a man with a secret or two,” she teased, brown eyes flashing excitedly. Her lipstick had smudged a little bit near the left corner of her mouth. Stan wanted to wipe it off with his thumb (or more realistically for him, a tissue - but that was less of a sexy image) and then kiss it messy again.

 

Okay, THAT thought had crossed the line. He looked despondently back up at Patty - sweet, peach cardigan Patty with her pink-hued makeup, pretty collarbones, and pencil skirt - and gave her an apologetic smile.

 

“Busy this weekend, Pat,” he told her, in spite of the fact that his weekend was wide open. “Sorry.”

 

She smiled and shrugged lightly. She was almost close enough to touch the back of the swivel chair he was sitting in, and it was driving him a little bit bonkers. “Weekend after that, then.”

 

“No--”

 

“After that?”

 

“Well…”

 

“After that.”

 

“Patty, seriously?”

 

She laughed again and touched his shoulder lightly with her pretty, manicured nails. “I’ll get that date, Stanley Uris. You’re not the only one with ambition around here.”

 

Stan was completely thrown for a loop. After a few months of working together, he hadn’t even expected her to remember his full name, never mind express interest in going a date with him. He was a whole year her junior, and he definitely served to harshen her vibe - she was _namaste_ , he was _stay away_ \- but that wasn’t stopping him from responding to Patty’s flirty comments with a sly, carefully curated smile.

 

“Work for it, Blum,” he told her. “You’re going to need to, if you don’t want to get cut for next year.”

 

She dipped out of the cubicle doorway, laughing merrily as she went. “Thanks for the laughs!” she called back, and disappeared into the throng of office workers.

 

“Wait ‘til I tell Richie that someone said _that_ to me today,” Stan mused, unable to keep a smile from playing at the corner of his lips. “I never get to be the funny one.”

 

 _Funny looking_ , Richie’s voice sounded in his head, and Stan groaned. Even when he wasn’t there, Richie wouldn’t leave Stan alone.

 

Truth be told, though, Stan was kind of fond of the little Richie thoughts he had over the course of a given day. Richie was his first real friend, in undergrad or otherwise, and although Stan didn’t often take his advice, he trusted that any iteration of Richie could be counted upon to be working in Stan’s best interest. That boy was nothing if not loyal.

 

Stan’s thoughts were interrupted by the obnoxious ring of his work phone. He groaned softly to himself, running through a mental list of who might be on the other end of the line. It wasn’t Patty - she had just been here, and his expense report for the Slocum account wasn’t due to his supervisor for another three hours….was it a call from an outside line?

 

Maybe it was Ben. They’d had one of their infamous heart-to-hearts the other day, and Ben hadn’t reached the conclusion that Stan had hoped he’d reach - that he was probably gay and in love with Bill (Stan had figured that was the most reasonable conclusion given the amount of time Ben spent trailing after Bill and Bev like a lost puppy), so maybe he was calling to tell Stan he’d seen the light. Stan could really only hope.

 

He picked up the phone with his right hand, and cradled it against his shoulder. “B.M. Lotus, Stanley Uris speaking,” he said in his best customer service voice.

 

“Hi sweetheart,” a familiar voice said on the other end of the phone. Stan immediately dropped the affect and closed his eyes, exhausted before the conversation had even begun.

 

“Mom,” he greeted, “is there an issue? You never call my work line.”

 

“I needed to today,” she said, and he couldn’t help but notice the rasp in her voice; the heaviness in her breathing. He bit the inside of his cheek, willing himself not to jump to the worst possible conclusion.

 

“Why?” he asked carefully.

 

His mother heaved out a sob, and Stan knew that at least some of his fears were going to be confirmed in the next five minutes or so.

 

“Mom,” he said urgently, trying to break through to her. She was nearly impossible to console when she got swept up in her crying, and he needed her to tell him whatever news she needed to tell him. “Whatever it is you need to tell me...tell me quick. Rip off the bandaid.”

 

He could hear her struggling to compose herself on the other end of the line, and he inhaled sharply, willing her to get herself together.

 

“Your father,” she finally managed to get out, and Stan’s blood went cold. Donald Uris was Stan’s childhood hero, his greatest villain, greatest cheerleader, greatest everything under the sun. Stan associated him with every archetype, because when Stan was in school, it had felt like his father was the center of the universe, and Stan had been too young to know better.

 

His relationship with his father had changed, as all good relationships do, but there was still a little bit of awe left in it - still a little bit of wonder.

 

Suddenly, he found himself not wanting his mother to continue talking.

 

“No,” he said numbly, hands working on autopilot to collect his things and place them in his briefcase. “Mom--”

 

“He was in the car…”

 

“Mom, stop.” Stan just wasn’t equipped to hear the rest of the story. He knew that - knew that if she gave him all the details now, he’d end up breaking down in the middle of his office, and he’d worked too hard to let anyone around him see that he was weak. “I’m coming, okay? I’m leaving work and getting in the car. I’ll see you in an hour.”

 

“I love you,” she choked, and he dug his nails into his palms to keep himself from reacting audibly.

 

“Love you too,” he managed, hanging up and moving to pack up the rest of his stuff.

 

As fate would have it, that was the exact moment that Stan’s supervisor chose to show up, sweeping into his cubicle like a Category 4 hurricane.

 

“Laurent,” Stan said, grateful that he was still able to keep his voice under control. “I have to go.”

 

Laurent frowned and looked down at the clipboard he was carrying.

 

“You didn’t notify anyone that you were going to be leaving today.”

 

“I didn’t know that I was going to have a family emergency until right this minute.” Stan stared incredulously at Laurent, who seemed more interested in his clipboard than he was in Stan’s family crisis. “You have to understand.”

 

Laurent looked up and met Stan’s eyes, finally. Exhaustion was radiating off of him in waves, and his entire countenance was bleak.

 

“Let’s have a chat in my office, Stanley, shall we?”

 

Stan felt like he was in California, trapped in a flash mudslide or whatever psychotic weather fuckery they had out west.

 

Ten minutes ago, he was the most put-together person on planet Earth.

 

“Okay,” Stan said quietly, abandoning his things and heading, shoulders slumped and head down, into a suddenly desolate future.

 

\----

 

“Did you know that there are three times more people in law school than there are practicing lawyers?”

 

Mike rolled his eyes, concentrating his energy on sorting his socks. He used to really look forward to his weekly trips to the laundromat with Ben - the whole experience was kind of soothing, and a good way for the two roomates to catch up with each others’ goings on. They ran on opposite schedules, and often didn’t get a chance to really sit with one another and connect.

 

Lately, though...lately, Ben had been nothing short of a moody little bitch, and Mike was just a little bit tired of it.

 

“You may have told me that once or twice already,” he said, not wanting to dip into that particular topic of conversation.

 

Ben, however, wasn’t finished. “What’s the point then? Why put in all that effort when you’re not even really sure there’ll be a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow?”

 

Mike had lived with Ben for long enough, now, to know that behind Ben’s carefully curated words, something else was brewing. “You’re hardly a pot of gold kind of guy, Hanscom. More of a ‘for the greater good’ person, I think. Why are you asking me this?”

 

“Well.” Ben suddenly seemed extra preoccupied with measuring out his detergent. “I know how hard it is to show up after years of work and patience and then not have a reward there. Fucking sucks. Trying to help you out.”

 

While it was true that they hadn’t connected in a while, Ben’s little tells hadn’t changed in as long as Mike had known him, and he was practically in overdrive right now in fastidiously making sure that the detergent poured into the machine neatly and evenly. He even seemed to be putting a little bit of bonus effort into keeping his hands steady, which meant he was doing everything in his power to keep his shakiness under wraps. Mike had touched on a nerve by asking him that question, it seemed.

 

“This doesn’t have anything to do with me at all, does it,” Mike guessed, knowing full well that he was correct.

 

Ben exhaled heavily, staring into the washing machine full of mismatched socks. “I just don’t know why my luck doesn’t change, you know?”

 

“In writing?” Mike was starting to regret not catching up with Ben sooner. He should have figured that there was something substantial behind Ben’s moodiness. “Because if you’re talking about being unlucky in friendship, think again, bud. We’re the best six people you’ll ever know, even if Richie is, in fact, insane...and Stan’s losing his mind too, come to think of it. Last week, I caught him dry-sobbing over a bowl of begonias. Starting to think that the business world isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.”

 

Ben didn’t seem to be interested in the news about Stan - or anything else Mike had to say, for that matter. He just continued to go through the motions of laundry.

 

“Nah, not in friendship or in writing.” Ben picked up a wet sock dejectedly and then dropped it back in the machine. “The newspaper job’s not bad. No inspiration, but I don’t think I’ve ever had inspiration, really.”

 

“You did okay in school,” Mike reminded him, “always ditching us at parties to go home and drunk-write submissions to The Common.”

 

Ben closed the lid of the machine loudly and sat down on one of the shitty metal folding chairs that were haphazardly strewn throughout the laundromat. “That’s just lit mag bullshit, my friend. Plus, did you ever see my name on any of that stuff? Hm?”

 

“We figured you just submitted anonymously.” Mike dragged a chair over to where Ben had plopped down and sat beside him, not wanting him to check out of the conversation. “Like that guy who went on and on about January Embers or whatever that was in every issue, except less obsessive. Maybe.”

 

Ben’s face was in the process of turning an odd shade of fuschia. “I didn’t think anybody but me paid attention to that guy.”

 

“He was Bev’s favorite.” Mike smiled at the memory of sitting out on the grass with Bev and Bill, watching Bev’s eyes light up as she scanned through the pages and pages of pretentious poems and dull, over-saturated stories. She used to get so distracted in looking for January Embers’ work that Bill could sometimes get three whole handfuls of grass in her hair before she noticed and smacked him for it. “She liked the insinuation that the subject of the poems was red-haired. Felt like it was representation or something like that.”

 

Ben tried to scoff, but he was smiling too widely to be able to pass as annoyed. “I’m sure you had some things to say about that.”

 

Mike shrugged amiably. “Sometimes it’s more pleasant just to let the white people have their fun. So long as it’s not hurting anyone. I know Bev knows better.”

 

“She does,” Ben agreed, nudging him in the shoulder. “What’s up with you, though, Mikey? No fun lawyer stories for me this go-around?”

 

“Nah.” Mike hated to say that, especially given that Ben finally seemed to be in a good enough mood to make conversation, but there was really, truly, and honestly not enough going on in his academic life to talk about. “Just classes, work, the usual grind. Making my dad proud.”

 

Ben suddenly tore his eyes from Mike’s, looking down at his hands with a strange, sad expression. He seemed to be debating whether or not to say something - and eventually, he decided on ‘not’.

 

Mike didn’t know how to break the silence after that, so he did the only thing he felt he _could_ do in that situation: he channeled Richie Tozier.

 

“How does an attorney sleep?”

 

Ben didn’t look up. “How?”

 

“By lying on one side, and then lying on the other.”

 

That got him engaged again. He looked back at Mike, the corner of his mouth threatening to curl upwards. “Dude. You’re literally in law school.”

 

“Doesn’t mean I can’t make fun of myself.” The dryer buzzed to signal that one of Mike’s loads was done. He stood up slowly, stretching out his legs and hearing the satisfying ‘pop’ of one of his hips as he came to a full stand. “Rest of y’all do it all the time. I might as well join in the fun.”

 

“No,” Ben said fondly. “Never you, Mike. Always one of the rest of us clowns getting made fun of, but never you.”

 

“You either.” Mike chortled as he reached for the pull door of the machine that he needed. “We really only have one Court Jester among us. What’re we gonna do when he lands himself in jail for good?”

 

“Eddie’ll have to mortgage his mother’s house,” Ben said sadly. “And then she’ll kill him.”

 

“Nah, she loves him too much.” Mike started taking clothes out of the dryer, folding them, and putting them back in his laundry bag, shaking his head all the while. “She’ll kill Richie.”

 

“Assuming one of the rest of us doesn’t get there first.”

 

“True.” The t-shirt that Mike was holding had a hole near the armpit. It was the first Mike was seeing this, and he was bummed - he loved his old X-Files tee, but it wasn’t really the kind of shirt that was worth sewing. “That’s fine, though. Eddie needs to learn: love is not without consequences.”

 

Ben went quiet again, and Mike was left to wonder what exactly it was that he said that had touched a nerve.

 

“Have you ever been in love, Mikey?” he finally asked.

 

Mike stopped taking things out of the dryer, taking a minute instead to try and process the question. His brain unhelpfully provided him with several images of his crush, Ella Thomas, and nothing else, and so he was forced to improvise. “Um. I don’t think so. I’ve definitely been in ‘like’, but...you know me. I work too much, I don’t make that much of a an effort. Not been in enough relationships to really say about love. How about you?”

 

Ben smiled sadly down at the piece of metal chair he could see between his legs. “I think that might be the meaning of life.”

 

“What? Love?” Mike asked, a little taken aback. “Is that why you haven’t had any success with that personal piece about the meaning of life? You’re looking for love?”

 

“Love,” Ben confirmed, “and it’s not about the writing.”

 

Mike was literally in training to notice details and structure arguments around them, but the conclusion to this one was still eluding him.

 

After a few seconds spent trying to decide on a response, Mike settled on: “Are you insane?”

 

Ben laughed quietly to himself and shut his eyes, brushing his sandy hair out of his eyes in one long, lazy sweep of his hand.

 

“Did you know that there are three times more people in law school—“

 

“Go fuck yourself,” Mike replied with a grin.

 

——

 

Parties were, to put it in the simplest way possible, _not_ places where Ben Hanscom had ever felt entirely good or comfortable. In undergrad, when Bill and Richie threw ragers in the frat house their junior and senior year, Ben had only attended for a quick moment, just long enough to see everybody, and then had made excuses about early mornings and writing projects in order to go back to his room and pour his feelings and anxieties into creative pieces that only ever saw the light of day as anonymous submissions to The Common.

 

That much had apparently paid off - if what Mike had told him was true, anyway - but the point was, he was less than happy to be at this person’s house right now amidst a sea of drunken twenty-somethings, especially since his inspiration for writing seemed to have flown the coop. No excuses for leaving, now, except for the truth: he was too introverted and heartsick for these kind of events, and that wasn’t the kind of shit that anybody really wanted to hear.

 

“I imagine Richie isn’t actually supposed to be holding parties here?” he asked Bill, trying to make the conversation as personal as he possibly could while still being audible over the loud music and crazy shouting. It didn’t work - Bill tapped his ear to indicate that he hadn’t heard, and Ben groaned in frustration. He didn’t know why they’d settled for drinking whilst sandwiched against one of the living room walls, but he could really go for a move to the kitchen, or the front porch, or really anywhere more secluded.

 

“I SAID, RICHIE’S NOT SUPPOSED TO BE DOING THIS, RIGHT?” he shouted, hoping Richie wasn’t anywhere within earshot.

 

Bill caught his words that time. “NO,” he shouted back, “B-BUT I’M T-T-TIRED OF SAVING HIS ASS ABOUT EMPLOYMENT. HE LOST THE P-POLLSTER JOB, HE’LL LOSE THIS ONE T-T-TOO.”

 

Ben felt a twinge in his gut upon realizing how publicly they were discussing Richie’s shortcomings. “LET’S MOVE OUTSIDE.”

 

Bill nodded, and started to push his way through the crowd. Ben followed, sneaking into the spaces that Bill created (and wasn’t that some poetic truth?), and together, they made their way to the front porch, where smokers were sprawled haphazardly along the railing.

 

“Like I was saying,” Bill continued once they had finally escaped the booming music being played inside. “I’ve gotten him thuh-three jobs now. This one I th-thought would stuh-stick...he’s working for a gangster for fu-fucks’s sake, and he’s really only k-keeping house. And yet, here we are, at this goddamn stupid fuh-FUCKING party he’s t-thrown at his employer’s house.”

 

“It’s a great party,” Ben offered weakly, looking back at the door and allowing himself to think about Bev for a second, to wonder where she was.

 

“It’s irresponsible,” Bill countered, scowling like he wasn’t also five drinks in and having a decent time.

 

“Well, yeah.” Ben was amazed by Bill’s continued hope that they would all somehow magically grow up in the span of a couple of months. They were just kids, still. Why shouldn’t they enjoy 22? “But we’re not adults yet, not really. Why not have some fun?”

 

In response, Bill gestured to the house, which was starting to smell a little bit like it had been dipped in beer and left out in the sun for a couple of days.

 

Okay, he might have a point about some things - Richie things, specifically.

 

“Hey, guys!” Bill and Ben turned to find Eddie Kaspbrak bounding up the stairs, which would normally not be a startling sight, except that they hadn’t seen him in a good month and a half. Ben blinked twice, and then felt his heart lift a little bit - it was almost a relief, somehow, to see Eddie’s face. Seeing any of his friends’ faces was a little bit like coming home.

 

“Eddie!” Bill was at the porch steps in seconds, sweeping Eddie up into an embrace that was uncharacteristically not-awkward. (Maybe the booze was softening things.) “How’ve you b-been, man?”

 

“Okay,” Eddie said softly, disentangling himself from Bill and moving on to Ben. Ben clapped an arm on Eddie’s shoulder, trying to convey affection that way - he’d never been much of a hugger, not since the embarrassment it had caused his fat little self in middle school. (High school track had helped him shed pounds, but he’d never shed his own discomfort with himself.) Eddie seemed to understand, and put a hand on Ben’s arm in return, tugging at the fabric of his collared shirt near his left elbow.

 

“All right Eddie?” Ben asked, trying to make sense of the adrift expression on his friend’s face.

 

“Yeah.” Eddie looked up, but not at Ben - instead, he turned and looked behind him, and Ben noticed for the first time that a stocky, withdrawn looking woman was waiting on the porch steps. “This is Myra, by the way. My mom’s friends with her mom.”

 

Ah. An infamous Sonia-mandated date. Ben winced and looked at the ground, hoping that this girl was better than the dozen others that Eddie had been forced to go out with.

 

“This place smells,” Myra complained, and Ben bit back a groan. Sonia certainly knew how to pick ‘em. “Eddie, we’re supposed to be on a date.”

 

“It’s a party,” Eddie defended himself without any real conviction. “That’s a place that people go on dates.”

 

“But Eddie…”

 

“I haven’t seen my friends in months, Myra.” Eddie wasn’t even pretending like he wanted to be with her. It was refreshing to watch - this Richie-less past month had obviously done his self-confidence some good. “You’ll be all right. Maybe you’ll even meet someone.”

 

“But--” she tried, but Eddie was so far out of reach for her that there was really no arguing with him. She settled for standing on the edge of the porch, sulking.

 

“Where’s Richie?” Eddie turned back to Bill with desperate eyes,and Ben took back his previous thought about Eddie being better adjusted. He wouldn’t be here if he was better adjusted. He was an addict looking for a Richie hit, and what better place to get one than at one of Richie’s parties?

 

“I saw him with Stan inside,” Ben began carefully, “but do you really think it’s the best idea--”

 

“I just have to tell him one thing, Ben, just one little--”

 

“Speaking of inside,” Bill said, a strange expression crossing his face. “I remember why I was in thuh-there now - with Ben, against the wall.”

 

Ben squinted back at him, confused. “There was a reason?”

 

“Yes.” Bill moved back towards the house with an urgency that scared Ben. Eddie followed eagerly behind, anxiously trying to peek in the windows - presumably for signs of Richie.

 

“Eddie,” Myra said weakly.

 

“I’m gay, Myra,” Eddie snapped, probably harsher than he meant to. “If you hadn’t picked up on that yet, I don’t know what to tell you.”

 

Myra’s eyes immediately became glassy. Ben looked away - this was too much for him, too much second-hand embarrassment, too much drama. He just wanted to talk to Bev or go home - either thing would suffice.

 

“I’m going to go home,” she said, soft and sad.

 

“Okay,” Eddie agreed. There was regret in the slope of his eyebrows and the way his shoulders were drawn tight, but Myra wouldn’t know that, and Ben wanted so badly for him to say something, say something, say something...but he didn’t. He followed Bill through the front door without a single apologetic word to Myra.

 

Ben figured he had no choice but to follow both of them and tell them off.

 

“Attention everyone!” Bill was shouting when Ben made it into the living room. He had climbed up on a table, and was using a cup as a makeshift megaphone (which was entirely ineffective, as he was definitely speaking into the plastic bottom of the cup and muffling his voice). “I need everyone to c-come into the living room puh-puh-please.”

 

Slowly, the party-goers started to take an interest, and began congregating around Bill’s coffee table. Richie, Stan, Mike, and Ben were chief among those Bill’s announcement had attracted - they pushed to the front of the crowd, all wearing matching concerned expressions. Ben didn’t look over at Eddie, but he knew all the same that his eyes had flickered to Richie like a moth to a flame - and that he was probably disappointed and scared by what he saw. Richie looked like absolute shit. He was in one of his infamous loud shirts, and had Mardi Gras beads wound around his neck, but the shirt billowed around him in a way it hadn’t a month ago, and the beads only served to highlight the stubble on his face and the circles around his eyes. Post-grad had been bad to all of them, but Richie was having the worst time by far.

 

Ben found himself resenting Bill for the eightieth time that night alone upon remembering Bill’s earlier comments about Richie’s work habits.

 

“Ladies and gentlemen of the juh-jury,” Bill began, winking over at Mike. Mike gave a short laugh and gestured for him to get on with his speech. “I have gathered you here t-today to t-t-toast my accomplishments.”

  
A cheer rang out from the crowd. Ben saw Bev’s eyes scrunched up in quiet laughter, and felt ill.

 

“My career’s taking off,” and that sparked another cheer from Stan and Mike, which Bill waved off with a grin, “and I think my p-personal life should be, too--you see, I’m in love with this really guh-great girl. Beverly Marsh, everybody!”

 

Ben joined in with that particular raucous round of applause, but Bev didn’t look too pleased with it - in fact, her face was twisted up in embarrassment and...distaste?

 

“Beverly Marsh,” Bill said with exaggerated aplomb, swaying and holding out a hand to her, “marry me.”

 

“He didn’t stutter when he asked her, did you hear?” Eddie whispered, staring up at Bill with a freshman year level of zealous devotion in his eyes. “Not even once.”

 

Ben couldn’t hear what was happening as a response, but he knew the crowd would have gone nuts if it had been a solid ‘yes’, and that wasn’t the case, so he was holding out hope. Bill was being pulled down off of the table, and Ben tracked his movements with his eyes, watching Bev drag him out of the living room and into the kitchen.

 

He didn’t even want to imagine what was going on in there, so he remained exactly where he was.

 

“Do you think something’s wrong?” Eddie asked anxiously.

 

Ben had a couple of different thoughts about how to answer that question, but he was interrupted before he got the chance.

 

“Eds?” Shit. Richie had spotted them through the crowd and was coming their way. His tacky plastic necklaces were catching the dim overhead light in all the worst ways, and Ben almost didn’t want to look at him.

 

“Richie,” Eddie breathed, and Ben knew from his tone that there was absolutely no way he was going to be kept away from Richie tonight. He tried to make eye contact with Stan to see if Stan could intercept the interaction, but Stan’s gaze was distant - he was on something, no doubt. Ben was a little surprised - Stan was usually too fastidious for anything but alcohol.

 

“Where the fuck have you been?” Richie demanded, eyes and curls both wild and ferocious. “After the shit you said to me, Eddie Kaspbrak, you have the fucking nerve to--”

 

Eddie’s hands were clenched into little fists, and he pushed past Ben quickly to get up in Richie’s face. “I don’t owe you anything, dipshit! And _I_ have the fucking nerve?!? YOU have the fucking nerve - for years, you--”

 

“Stop.” Mike was on the scene before Ben had gotten as far as holding up his hands and asking them to cease fire. “Eddie, why did you come here?”

 

“To see him!” Eddie cried out, a breath away from total hysteria. Ben hoped that someone had an inhaler on them, because Eddie was going to need it sooner rather than later.

 

Richie blinked stupidly back at him. “The fuck….to see…..what a fucking…..Eds, are you serious?”

 

Eddie’s voice broke on his next statement, and Ben knew that waterworks weren’t far behind. “I think...I’m not...it’s hard, Richie.”

 

“It’s so hard, sweetheart.” Richie’s tone had changed dramatically from what it was a few minutes ago. Now, he sounded as desperate as Eddie looked. “I know it is, it’s so hard, but can we please--”

 

“WHAT DID YOU D-DO?!?”

 

All conversation was cut short by Bill Denbrough’s eruption back into the room. Before Ben knew what was happening, his collar had been seized and he was being shaken back and forth so hard that he barely even had time to think the word _concussion_ before he was absolutely sure it was upon him - his ears were ringing and his head was spinning and--.

 

“WHAT DID YOU T-TELL HER?”

 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” Ben cried, trying to free himself from Bill’s grip.

 

“He didn’t tell me!”

 

Bill let Ben go, and Ben collapsed with a loud thunk on the floor. He looked around, desperately trying to place where the third voice was coming from - and then he found her.

 

Bev was standing in the doorway to the kitchen, looking absolutely wrecked. “I had a hunch you were cheating, and you confirmed it. That’s all. Don’t blame him.”

 

The silence in the room was enough to make anyone’s stomach churn. Ben quietly peeled himself off of the floor as Bev and Bill stared each other down.

  
“I want you out of the apartment. T-TONIGHT.” Bill finally spat, turning on his heel and marching out the front door of the house.

 

The crowd tittered at that, and the tittering turned to talking, and within five minutes, the party was back in full swing.

 

Bev looked like someone had electrocuted her. Her hair was all awry, her face was pale and drawn, and her eyes were the biggest Ben had ever seen them. She choked out a dry sob, and then started looking around wildly for a place to escape.

 

Ben could provide her a place to escape.

 

He leapt to his feet, making a beeline for her and leaving Richie and Eddie to Mike and Stan. “Bev! Hey!”

 

Bev whipped around, searching the faces of the people around her accusingly until she found Ben, at which point her face crumpled.

 

“Ben,” she exhaled, dry-sobbing again and falling a little bit forward in his direction.

 

“I’m here,” he promised, moving closer in order to catch and take her body weight. She smelled like cheap beer and disinfectant. It was his new favorite smell. “You can stay with me tonight.”

 

He’d never taken a girl home from a party before.

 

“Okay,” she sniffed, shaking in his arms. “I want--can we…?”

 

“Yes,” he nodded, and with Bev clutching to his forearm, he left the party at last.

 

\----

 

In seventh grade, Greta Bowie had dumped out the trash from the second floor girls’ bathroom on to Bev’s head. Bev had been in a stall at the time, and all of a sudden, she’d been hit by a rain shower of dirty paper towels and used sanitary products. At the time, she’d thought that she’d just lived through the worst day of her life - that nothing from that point on could be any more terrible than what had just happened to her.

 

She was wrong. Today was way worse than any seventh grade bathroom fiasco.

 

“You’re allowed to feel mad, Bev,” Ben was telling her. It was obvious that he didn’t like seeing her cry - every time she’d so much as teared up, he’d gotten jittery, offering to make her tea or cocoa or bring her a blanket. She’d declined every single thing. It was nice enough that Ben was offering up his house - he didn’t have to do anything extra for her.

 

God - Ben was so good. The contrast between him and Bill was making her feel like a total idiot. Why had she stuck around as long as she had? She’d had her suspicions for weeks and weeks - Bill had been coming home at weird hours, smelling conspicuously like deodorizing products, and just generally acting bizarre in public, but the difference between _wondering_ about terrible things and _knowing_ terrible things was way more intense than she could have ever imagined. She knew she should be absolutely livid, but instead she just felt...sad.

 

She must have messed up somewhere down the line. She must have done something to drive him away.

 

“I don’t know how I feel,” she lied to Ben, drawing her feet to her chest. She’d been sitting on the same couch cushion for three hours, slowly drinking herself to oblivion, but she couldn’t sleep. She didn’t want to sleep. She was too upset to sleep.

 

“Don’t blame you.” Ben was matching her drink for drink from the other side of the couch. “You wanna see some inspirational quotes? Here.” He slid off of the couch and down to his cluttered coffee table, opening the small, built-in drawer and rummaging through what looked like coupons. “I have a whole book of those goddamn inspirational quotes. Only reason I still have a job. Oh--.”

 

He’d pulled a little bit too hard, and the whole drawer had come out of the table. It fell on Ben’s leg, and he let out a string of curses and tipped the drawer off of him, clutching his leg. The contents of the drawer spilled all over the floor, and Bev examined the scattered papers without much interest...until she saw a selection of photos that had been in the back of the drawer fanned out by one of the legs of the table.

 

“Ben? Is that me?”

 

She reached out and tried to pull a few of the photos closer to her. Frantically, Ben swatted her hands away, obviously trying to prevent her from seeing them.

 

“Those are old! You don’t have to look at those. In fact, please don’t, I’m still pudgy in most of them--”

 

“These pictures are of me, aren’t they?” Bev managed to snag three or four of them and take a look. They were indeed all pictures of her. She couldn’t find it in her to be mad, though, because most of them were B-roll candids where she actually looked kind of beautiful - or at least _free_ , tossing her head back and laughing, speaking, _existing_ with reckless abandon.

 

Bill hadn’t really liked that side of her, she realized. Bill wanted her to fit into a box that didn’t actually correlate to the things that she was; the things she liked to do.

 

Ben was silent for a moment. Bev imagined he was trying to figure out a way to explain what she was seeing - and she thought she had a pretty good idea. He was an author, after all. It was his job to try and capture the truth in people. This was just a specific study of her in particular, and she was flattered to be chosen.

 

“I can explain,” he finally offered.

 

“You’re so good at this, Ben,” she told him, wanting to be honest, to let him know how wonderfully talented she thought he was. This must be how Eddie felt, she thought, whenever he heard Richie playing his saxophone. So much talent...so little self-confidence.

 

Funny, she’d never thought of Ben as being like Richie before. Maybe they were all a little bit like each other, in a way. They’d been together for so long that now they were just all one amalgam.

 

She didn’t really want to be like Bill anymore, though.

 

“Good at what? Photography?” Ben interrupted her thoughts with his flustered reply. His ears were red. “I’m an author, Bev, not a--”

 

“At seeing people for who they are,” she corrected, taking in his scrunched up nose with fond eyes. “There’s a lot of love in these pictures.”

 

Ben’s blush deepened. “I have a lot of love to give.”

 

“You do,” Bev agreed, seeing the truth of his statement in his eyes. “To who, though, Ben? I haven’t seen you with a girl since--” She frowned, realizing she’d never actually seen or heard of him doing anything related to romance. That didn’t seem right. Ben was romantic by nature - he was an author, for fuck’s sake. “Benny sweetheart. How long’s it been since you last got laid?”

 

In some vague part of her brain, she registered that she would absolutely have not asked him that question were she sober...but she didn’t particularly care about differentiating between drunk and sober Bev at the moment.

 

Ben wasn’t meeting her eyes anymore. He’d elected to switch to staring at the pattern on the old, faded couch like he could will the poor stitching back to its former glory.

 

“It’s been a little bit.”

 

“Is something wrong?” She couldn’t help but feel a little twinge of guilt again. She hadn’t noticed he was sad, she hadn’t noticed the lack of romance in his life...she’d been a pretty bad friend to him, hadn’t she? She wondered if he thought she was a bad friend too, and thought about asking him, but ultimately she decided against it in favor of waiting for his answer.

 

“No.” He didn’t sound like he was lying. His ears and cheeks were still bright red, but his voice was matter-of-fact - a strange combination of embarrassment and nonchalance. “It’s really just that it’s all I think about, you know? You’re all I think about.”

 

His last sentence echoed around her brain a solid five times before she could make sense of it...and when she finally did, she was sure that her jaw actually hit the floor - hard enough to bruise, even.

 

“What?” she asked, completely struck dumb by the statement.

 

Ben seemed to realize that he’d let loose something that could be potentially terrible - but he also seemed to want to keep talking. He let his eyes flick up to her and travel down from her hair to her lips to her waist.

 

“You’re all I think about,” he continued, the vulnerability in his voice clear and terrible. “And I think that the reason I haven’t been looking for a girlfriend or keeping with my running routines or anything - it’s because I am desperately….and completely….”

 

Bev almost didn’t want him to finish the sentence. She knew where it was headed, and the tears were already in her eyes - how was she supposed to process this? How could one small person be expected to handle this much emotion in one night?

 

“...in love with you,” he finished, and the world ended and began again fifteen times in the dizzy expanse of her drunk mind. _In love with you._

 

“Me?” she whispered, trying to ground herself and lose herself at the same time. “Me, Ben?”

 

She knew Ben was at least six drinks deep, but he looked completely and utterly sober as he met her stare. “Ah. Well. We’ll probably forget about all of this tomorrow, yeah?”

 

Bizarrely, his saying that gave Bev a sort of resolve. All of the storming emotions in her brain and chest quieted - she had hit the eye of the hurricane - and she placed her hand on Ben’s arm.

 

There was only one course of action here, it seemed.

 

“Ben,” she said, looking at his shoes and praying that all turned out the way it was supposed to. “It is tomorrow.”

 

Ben’s breath hitched, and he put his hand over hers, hovering there for a millisecond like a nervous butterfly - and then they were kissing, he had moved like lightning towards her face and it was bad, really bad, like he was out of practice or maybe just new to the whole kissing thing (and maybe he was, who knew), but it was Ben, and that fact was enough to make her kiss back, laughing all the while.

 

“I love you,” he whispered, like it was the most important thing he would ever say. “I _love_ you.”

 

She couldn’t say it back, of course - she wasn’t going to touch emotion again, not tonight - but she poured all of herself into what they were doing, and as a result, felt like some kind of magic power had been restored for her...the power of flight. She was free. She was _free!_

 

She let him take her to bed, let him love her body, because he loved her, and she could see in his eyes how much this meant to him. She loved that it was clearly _her_ that he adored - all of her, every single part, unlike Bill, who was always discriminate about what he did and didn’t like…

 

God, why couldn’t she stop thinking about Bill?

 

“I love you,” Ben told her again, and she closed her eyes, not wanting to see the look on his face. If she looked, it would ruin her, and she just wanted to be safe right now.

 

Nothing was fixed...and that was not a problem for now.

 

\----

 

Bill Denbrough wasn’t used to the feeling of failure.

 

His stutter got in the way of things a lot. That was the closest he usually came to feeling bad or sorry for himself - when his stutter flared up. He’d been to every speech therapist under the sun as a child, and had met regularly with specialists and counselors through high school, but nothing had gotten better, really. He was stuck in those speech patterns, for better or for worse - muscle memory of the mouth that he couldn’t erase. By the time he’d gotten to Georgetown, he’d just stopped trying. It was easier to accept defeat than to press on with something that he knew wouldn’t work the way he wanted it to.

 

He didn’t want to believe that things would be the same with Bev, but at this point, he just didn’t know.

 

There was usually no point in trying to get her to see reason when she was this angry. Their fights had sometimes taken weeks to cool down from, and it was always on her terms - she needed ample time to herself to sort things out before she was able to come back and be sensible.

 

He knew all of that, and still - still! He was considering going to see her.

 

Love really did make people stupid.

 

 _Love?_ Ben Hanscom’s voice was whispering in his head. _If you loved her so much, then why did you cheat on her all the time, huh? Why couldn’t you stay faithful?_

 

Fuck Ben Hanscom, honestly. He was too good for the rest of their group of idiot twenty-somethings. Too wise, too understanding. Mike was a little like that, too, except he was grounded in a way that Ben wasn’t...and for that reason, Bill was headed towards the apartment that Ben and Mike shared, hoping that he would get one and not the other.

 

God, he felt terrible. All of them had partaken pretty heavily in drinks last night, but Bill was pretty sure that he was the only one who had taken the party back to his house. It was lucky that he was alive, honestly - he should have been smarter than that, should have made sure he had someone around to watch over him. He thinks he vaguely remembers trying to ask Stan for a ride, but Stan had already promised Richie a ride, and then something was going on with Richie and Eddie...the bottom line proved to be, in the end, that the whole thing had been a huge mess and not worth intruding upon.

 

The red brick of the building that Ben and Mike lived in was visible in the distance. Bill tried to half-jog the rest of the distance, but stopped immediately on account of nausea and general lack of athletic ability. As it was, he was completely out of breath when he reached the door that led to their bottom-floor setup and began fumbling for the key.

 

He let himself in and looked around, trying to assess whether or not Mike was around. Things weren’t looking good. There was no bomber jacket on the hook in the kitchen, no bag thrown by the arm of the couch...he must have gone home with someone else last night. Good for Mike, bad for Bill.

 

Sighing, he made for the door again, trying to brace himself for the trek back home, but he was stopped by a voice from the other room.

 

“Who’s there?”

 

Shit. Ben.

 

“It’s me, dude,” he replied resignedly, shuffling back into the kitchen and opening a cabinet, looking for a water glass. If he was going to be here, he might as well try and quell his splitting headache. “Do you huh-have any ibuprofen?”

 

“Uh. Hey.” Ben tiptoed into the kitchen, looking uncharacteristically gross. Bill could practically see the alcohol oozing out of his pores. He seemed embarrassed that Bill was there, which was odd - did he not see that Bill was in the exact same predicament? “Hey.”

 

Bill stared at him, willing him to snap back into reality. He banged his glass on the counter, prompting winces from both of them, and said, “Ibuprofen? On top of the fuh-fuh-fridge, maybe? Looks like you n-need it, too.”

 

“Listen, dude…”

 

“And some s-s-sunglasses, maybe?” Bill pressed ahead, not wanting to hear whatever lecture Ben undoubtedly had in store for him about Bev. _‘I told you so’_ was likely to be repeated multiple times. Bill didn’t need it. “Are they in your ruh-room?”

 

“Not my room!” Ben was suddenly frantic, a mood that was heightened by the way his hair was sticking up in the back. Bill squinted at him, puzzled. There was no way Ben Hanscom had anything incriminating in his room. The worst thing Bill could possibly imagine him having was porn, and that was nothing to be embarrassed about among friends - in fact, Ben, Stan, Bill, Mike, and Richie had all shared porn in undergrad, passing around Playboys with casual interest. (Eddie had opted out of that practice, for obvious reasons.) Ben really had nothing to hide….that is, unless…

 

“Did you take someone home last n-night?” Bill almost couldn’t believe the words that were leaving his mouth. Ben never brought girls over. It was one of the unspoken laws of the universe. The sun rose, the grass grew green, and Ben Hanscom didn’t screw around with girls. What kind of weird world had he woken up in? Everything was backwards now.

 

“I...yeah,” Ben admitted, face already ruby red. “So if you don’t mind…”

 

“Who wuh-was it?” There was absolutely no way that Bill was leaving without finding out who Ben had slept with. Ben had been the guy holding all of the cards in their relationship for years. It was only right that Bill have a little bit of leverage at last.

 

“I really--I’m sure she wouldn’t--”

 

“Was it the f-fat chick?” Bill couldn’t help but let a little bit of glee sneak into his voice. He was starting to feel like it was a good idea for him to be here, in spite of the fact that Mike wasn’t around.

 

Ben rolled his eyes, and continued to avoid Bill’s eyes. “Come on, dude, can you just--”

 

“It was the f-f-fat chick!” Bill was full-on smiling now. He stared past Ben’s head and into the living room, willing whoever it was to come out of the room. God, he hoped it was the fat chick. That would be absolutely perfect.

 

“It’s not--”

 

Ben was silenced by a hand on his shoulder - a new hand, not Bill’s - and Bill felt his stomach plummet like he was on a roller coaster going down, down, down.

 

Beverly Marsh was standing behind Ben, wearing a huge, long-sleeved shirt and a pair of boxer shorts, neither of which were hers.

 

Nobody spoke for what felt like centuries. As it was, it was probably only thirty seconds, but it was the longest thirty seconds of Bill’s life.

 

This was betrayal of the highest order - and the effective end of everything that Bill had come to know and depend on from his friends.

 

There was no way for the seven of them to come back from this.

 

“Let me explain,” Bev finally said, face unreadable as she stepped out from behind Ben. Ben, for his part, was staring back at Bill with an almost menacing expression, almost as if he were daring Bill to do something about all of this.

 

Well, Ben was going to be disappointed, because for once in his life, Bill Denbrough had no fucking idea what to do.

 

“I don’t want to huh-hear your excuses,” he found himself saying, crossing his arms and glaring at Bev with all the disgust he could muster.

 

“We need to have a conversation,” Bev insisted, but there was no way Bill was going to have a conversation. What Bev had done was unforgivable.

 

“Did you s-sleep with the rest of t-t-them, too?” he couldn’t help but ask. “Richie? Stuh- _Stan_? God, those late b-business meetings with Stan--”

 

“Of course not!” Bev cried, outraged, at the same time that Ben shouted “How dare you!”

 

Bill’s fury was beyond red hot, now - now, it was cold, exacting, precise. “Oh, how cute. Cuh-cuh-coordinated speech.”

 

“Would you fucking listen to her for once in your life,” Ben began exasperatedly, but Bill wasn’t interested. He turned around and started making quick strides towards the door.

 

“Wasted love,” he called over his shoulder, half-hoping that Bev would chase after him.

 

“Bill Denbrough, don’t you dare!” she called, but there was no arm reaching out to stop Bill from leaving, no frantic hurry to keep him in the house.

 

She was going to let him go.

 

“Wasted love!” he yelled again, and left the apartment with one final, satisfying slam of the door.

 

\----

 

“So they’re both acting crazy, now.”

 

Eddie watched the ashes of Bev’s cigarette hit the pavement, and wondered when their lives had gotten to be so fucking messy. This was his third walk with Bev in two days, and every time they went out, she had another bizarre update about the situation with Bill and Ben.

 

Eddie didn’t know how to say that he just wanted all of this to be over, so he kept his mouth shut and continued to listen.

 

“Yeah, they’re both acting crazy.” Bev confirmed. “I was at Stan’s yesterday - what’s up with Stan, by the way? He looks strung out.”

 

“Maybe the job’s catching up with him at last?” Eddie suggested, trying to think back on the most recent times he’d seen Stan. He’d gone over a couple of weeks ago to show Stan some outfits that he’d picked out (because no one’s fashion approval meant more than Stan’s; he had arrived on Earth in business casual clothes and he would likely leave it the same way), and Stan had been drunk when he’d arrived, holding a glass of bourbon and cursing when he saw who was on the other side of the door...but Eddie had chalked that up to a bad day at work. Had this become a pattern?

 

“Maybe,” Bev said, frowning as she considered the possibility. “But anyway, I was at Stan’s having a drink, or three in Stan’s case, and Ben came over to show Stan and I this piece about love and the meaning of life he’d published as a column for the paper, and then Bill called Stan to ask about...something, I don’t really remember, but I answered, and that was just SUCH a shitshow. It ended with me having double the amount of alcohol I’d planned on having while Ben and Bill yelled at each other over the phone.”

 

“And Stan?” Eddie asked, still a little shaken up by the thought that something might not be right with their most reliable friend.

 

“Passed out on the couch, I think,” Bev said neutrally. “What am I gonna do, Eddie?”

 

Eddie sighed and kicked at a rock. They’d been over this specific question at least a hundred times already in the past two days. One more couldn’t hurt...but also, one more was making him feel a little bit like screaming.

 

“I’ve told you what I think, Bev,” he settled on saying. “You haven’t been single since middle school, and your last two relationships haven’t exactly been stellar. Maybe it’s time--”

 

“I just don’t want to hurt their feelings,” she interrupted, and Eddie fought back an eye-roll. Who cared about their feelings? Eddie had a lot of experience with selfish from his years spent mooning over Richie, and he knew straight up: they were being fucking selfish, and it was time for Bev to fight fire with fire.

 

“I think you need to think about your own feelings first,” Eddie advised, trying to sound more zen than he felt. “You don’t actually want to be in a relationship with either of them right now, do you?”

 

“No,” Bev said, tilting her face towards the sky. “Bill for obvious reasons, Ben because...I don’t know. He’s good, he’s so good, and he loves me so much, but I don’t know. It’s just not something I’ve ever really thought about before, you know? Not feelings I ever anticipated having or growing or developing or whatever, so. It’s weird. I don’t know how to tell him that it’s weird.”

 

“You probably shouldn’t have slept with him in the first place,” Eddie mumbled to himself, knowing full well how hypocritical that statement was.

 

Unfortunately, Bev heard him, and she knew about his hypocrisy too. “Yeah? You wanna talk about that one night with Richie Tozier, huh? Wanna compare notes?”

 

“It’s different,” Eddie explained lamely. “In the Richie scenario, I was the one with the feelings.”

 

“I still don’t think Richie would have tried to do that for you if he didn’t also have feelings,” Bev said. Eddie knew it was a ploy - she was trying to draw him in with Richie stuff so that he’d be more sympathetic to her case - but he was falling for it anyways. He always fell for the Richie stuff, because he was a huge fucking idiot.

 

“Richie doesn’t care about me,” Eddie countered without any real heat, trying to fish more information about Richie’s feelings out of Bev.

 

Bev knew better than to fall for any of his traps. “This conversation is closed.”

 

“Then so’s the one about Ben and Bill.” Eddie felt like it was a fair thing to ask. He’d given his opinion several times on the matter - it was time for her to either take it or leave it.

 

Bev pursed her lips and looked like she was going to say something mean, but what came out of her mouth was a simple, “Fine.”

 

“So we should talk about Stan,” Eddie urged, feeling like it would be a good use of their time to figure out exactly what was going on with that. Stan and Mike had always been the two most straightforward and realistic members of the group, and if Stan was drifting away from that, there was no guarantee that Mike by himself was going to be able to keep everyone else from floating away.

 

“We should,” Bev agreed, “but we’re at your house.”

 

Eddie flinched, jumping back uncomfortably when he glanced at the fence and determined that she was right. He hadn’t realized they’d made it as far as they had, but he really had no reason to be surprised. Bev had always been a superhumanly fast walker.

 

“You ever gonna get yourself out of here?” she asked, taking the cigarette stub out of her mouth and crushing it beneath her heel. Eddie began to wince, but stopped himself - Sonia would be upset about that kind of trash on the ground in front of their home, but Eddie didn’t have to be afraid of his mother’s tantrums. He didn’t have to be afraid any more.

 

If his time without Richie had taught him anything, it had taught him that. Whatever happened to him, he was gonna live. He was gonna be just fine.

 

Not that that knowledge kept him from missing Richie like a fucking phantom limb, but...it was true, and that’s what counted.

 

“I’ve got my eye on a little place in Easthampton,” he told Bev, sliding his hands in his pockets and grinning a small, proud grin.

 

Bev choked out a laugh, surprise apparently freezing up all the rest of her motor functions. “No shit. Really? You’re gonna move?”

 

“Yeah. I’m gonna settle things with my mother, and I’m gonna move.” Eddie had imagined it so many times, but saying it out loud...that was a whole new ballgame. He felt like he was soaring, but also kind of like he was going to be sick - in short, an amusement park flying swings kind of feeling. Not that Sonia had ever let him go to an amusement park, but he could imagine.

 

“And when are you going to tell her about this?” Bev asked skeptically, cocking a hip and raising an eyebrow.

 

“Today,” Eddie said. He honestly hadn’t thought that far ahead yet...but as soon as the words left his mouth, he knew they were true. He was going to face Sonia Kaspbrak and her remarkable ability to, within the scope of seconds, turn on the waterworks that she _knew_ made him feel guilty, and it was going to be today.

 

Holy shit.

 

Bev turned that thought over in her mind, looked at Eddie for a few long seconds, and then decided she was satisfied. She nodded, sliding her hands into her pockets.

 

“I’ll leave you to it, then,” she said, giving him a sly half-smile. “Good luck.”

 

“Was that supposed to be moral support?” he called after her. He could hear her windchime laughter off in the distance, but she didn’t turn around.

 

Exhaling, Eddie turned towards the house, suddenly intimidated by the size and the scope of it. His mother didn’t just exist in her own oversized shell of a body - no, her spirit was all over this house, from the pink outer paneling to the scratchy welcome mat to the puke green curtains you could see half-draped over the living room windows.

 

It had never seemed so big before. Fleetingly, Eddie wondered how he’d ever managed to convince himself that it would be okay to go out on the roof - the fall would have been atrocious.

 

With Richie, though, anything was possible.

 

(It was going to have to start to be that way without Richie, too.)

 

She was sitting exactly where he thought she’d be - in her brown recliner, like always, watching game shows and talk shows and cooking shows...any and all shows under the sun. The television had been one of her biggest ways of escaping reality after her husband died, and she’d never filtered out that particular crutch. Eddie didn’t really know what it meant in terms of her expectations for him - whether that had helped or harmed things over the years, but he didn’t have the heart or the nerve to try and wean her off of it.

 

“Mama?” he asked softly, hoping the sweetness in his voice and the almost-term of endearment would soften her up for the difficult conversation they were about to have.

 

Slowly, Sonia reached for the remote and turned the volume down on her program. “Eddie? Is that you?”

 

“It’s me, mama,” he confirmed, twisting his hands together nervously. He stepped a little bit farther into the room, so that she could see him in her peripheral vision. “Can we talk?”

 

She must have sensed how serious he was, because she switched the television all the way off and turned herself a little in her chair so she could see him better. “Is something wrong? Are you feeling sick? Come here - let me check you for fever.”

 

Eddie took a deep, grounding breath and stayed exactly where he was.

 

“Not sick, mama,” he said evenly, meeting her eyes. “Don’t need your help with that.”

 

“So you need my help,” she said, small, pinched eyes roaming over his face as if his expression could tell her what was going on.

 

“Maybe.” He looked away from her and towards the floor, not wanting to witness any more of her judgemental once-over. “You know how you read the newspaper every day?”

 

“Yes?” She’d given up on guessing the issue, it seemed.

 

“I was wondering if you could help me look for listings there?” Eddie spoke slowly and deliberately, not wanting her to miss a word or misunderstand. “I want to find a place for myself.”

 

Sonia didn’t respond for a while. Eddie looked back up at her to try and gauge how she was taking the request, but couldn’t read her face - she was just staring blankly at the wall behind his head.

 

“I can afford it,” he added, hoping that he sounded convincing. “I’ve been working for a while, now, and I have some money saved--”

 

“I thought that was a pet project,” Sonia said quietly, obviously still trying to process. “Edward...why would you work or leave or do any of those things? I don’t understand. You don’t have to - would never have to. You could just...get married, and live on the allowance that you have, keep your room...what on earth happened to that girl Myra? She seemed receptive to the idea of starting a family here--”

 

“No, mom.” She was clearly trying to sell the staying home dependency option as something that would sound favorable to Eddie, but she had stopped being in tune with Eddie’s interests long ago. He was kind of grateful for that, now. It made it all that much easier to tell her, “I don’t like Myra. I’m gay, I’m keeping my job, and I’m ready to move out.”

 

It was clear from her face that she had no idea what part of that sentence to respond to first. Eddie would have found her fish-like gaping funny if his future weren’t hinged so directly upon it.

 

“But...Myra?” she finally said, choosing the option that would hurt her feelings the least to address first.

 

“I don’t love Myra, mom.” The next words out of Eddie’s mouth weren’t planned, but he found that he meant them all the same. “I love Richie.”

 

“Rooftop Richie?!” his mother squeaked, and Eddie couldn’t help but giggle a little bit, putting one hand in front of his mouth to stifle the noise coming out.

 

“Rooftop Richie,” he repeated, feeling his heart slam against his chest as he said it. “Yes.”

 

She didn’t speak for another thirty seconds or so. Eddie closed his eyes, crossed his arms, and waited. The hard part was over now, he kept reminding himself, and whatever happened in the next five minutes was okay. He’d be okay.

 

“This is a lot to take in,” she said, breaking the silence shakily.

 

“I know,” Eddie said. “I know. I’m gonna stay with Bev for a little bit, I think. Are you gonna be okay?”

 

After a moment’s hesitation, she replied. “I think so.”

 

“And when I come back in a few days, we can talk about this like real adults? You’ll treat me like a real adult?”

 

Sonia bristled. “Is that any way to speak to your--”

 

“Mom,” Eddie chastised, trying his best to hold firm. He didn’t know where this sudden boldness was coming from - maybe in having avoided Richie, he’d turned himself into Richie a little bit to fill the void?

 

Sonia looked him over again, and seemed to decide that this wasn’t a fight she was going to win. “We’ll talk about this when you get back, yes. Do you need help packing a bag?”

 

“I’m good,” Eddie said, heading for the stairs and feeling lighter than he had in weeks...lighter than he had since he’d watched Richie walk out the door however long ago. “I’m gonna be okay.”

 

And it was true.

  
No matter what happened, Eddie Kaspbrak was gonna be just fine.

 

\----

 

The world as Stanley Uris knew it was ending.

 

That didn’t mean that anything was really going on in the wider world - no, Earth was spinning just like it usually did. The sun rose and set, businesses operated, and people interacted in the exact same way that they always had.

 

All of that almost made Stan feel worse, at the end of the day.

 

He’d lost his job. When he’d been called in to Laurent’s office on that fateful, miserable day, that had been the news he’d received. He almost hadn’t processed that part yet - it had been completely out of left field, even though he knew that the company was making massive cuts, because he knew what he was worth - he knew the quality of work he was putting out was far superior to what was being produced in other parts of the office. He’d never imagined that seniority would mean anything to people that were more interested in making a profit than they were about virtually anything else, but apparently it did, and by that standard, he was on the bottom of the totem pole.

 

Patty had been called in immediately after him, for the exact same reason. Stan had waited for her to come out, and then they’d spent a few minutes sitting silently together, trying to pull together their thoughts about the gloomy mystery that was suddenly their futures. She’d left her phone number with him when she left, asking him to “call her, _please_ ” like it was the last thing she had left to live for.

 

He hadn’t been in contact with her since that day. He didn’t want her to see the condition he was in.

 

The reason he’d spiraled so hard had very little to do with losing his job, however. The job situation had really only been the cherry on the shit sundae that was losing his father.

 

God, why did his father’s death make him feel so utterly _useless_?

 

He hadn’t even really known if his father had liked him. Donald Uris was a deeply religious man, and Stan’s rejection of Judaism in his college years had become a seemingly unbridgeable divide between them. They hadn’t spoken in quite some time - certainly not recently, and when they had seen each other in December, their interactions hadn’t been strictly amiable.

 

Was it stupid of him to wish that he’d done it differently? Was it childish to want to know if he’d ever regained the approval of his father?

 

It certainly felt stupid...and Stan _hated_ feeling stupid.

 

He’d tried to chase out the feeling with every substance, every strategy under the sun. He’d gone to Richie’s terrible party and done some terrible drugs there, which had really only intensified his negative feelings (and made him miss the aftermath of Bill and Bev’s falling out, which in turn made him feel like a really shitty friend). He’d tried to keep himself busy, but how busy could he stay without a job? Alcohol was his biggest constant; living life blurrily was better than facing the music head-on, but it wasn’t enough, and now…

 

Well, the sun rose and set, businesses operated, life went on as usual, and it was starting to feel like all of those things would be better and brighter for the citizens of the world if Stanley Uris wasn’t a part of any of them.

 

That was the long explanation for why he was in the situation he was in now: wearing a thin shirt and underwear, crouched in the middle of his bedroom (which was completely empty - he’d started selling his furniture for rent money after he’d gone through all of his savings on bills, food, and alcohol) in the middle of winter with all the windows open.

 

He’d heard that if you were going to go, that freezing was the way to do it - that after a while, you started to feel comfortably warm, and just drifted off.

  
He also couldn’t afford sleeping pills, so he was going to have to make do with the materials that he had.

 

Stan had been waiting for thirty minutes when he started to hear noises outside his door and living room window. At first, he imagined they were hallucinations. There was no one who knew where he was. His work colleagues hadn’t connected with him since he’d been fired, and his friends all thought he was at work - he hadn’t told them yet. He didn’t want them to be disappointed.

 

But no - it was becoming increasingly clear that he wasn’t crazy. The banging was too erratic to be a hallucination. Stan’s mind would never put together something so disorganized.

 

“STAN, PLEASE, OPEN THE GODDAMN DOOR!”

 

Bev’s voice was distinct among the lower-pitched male yells. She was on the other side of the window. Stan fought the urge to go to her - he loved her, but she shouldn’t have to hear about the shit he’d been going through, and he wasn’t about to be convinced out of what he was doing.

 

Her shouts were followed by some distant commotion - out by the fire escape, it sounded like - but Stan couldn’t figure out what that was, and he didn’t care. He was busy. They could bang all they wanted, but he wasn’t coming out.

 

“STAN, LISTEN. WE’RE GONNA GET A WELDING TORCH IF YOU DON’T OPEN UP IMMEDIATELY, AND IF THAT’S THE CASE, SHIT’S GONNA GET MESSY WITH YOUR LANDLORD, SO--”

 

Mike was as practical as ever, but Stan doubted that they had access to a welding torch. None of them were inclined towards construction, and Stan wasn’t sure why anyone who wasn’t construction-oriented would have something like that. He wasn’t going to respond to their threat. He was just going to keep doing what he was doing.

 

“STAN!” Surprisingly, it sounded like Richie hadn’t been the instigator of whatever commotion had happened on the fire escape. His voice was coming from behind the front door, and he sounded determined. “OPEN UP OR I’M GONNA BREAK DOWN THE DOOR.”

 

Fuck.

 

Richie was the last person Stan wanted to be with in this particular moment.

 

He’d tried to open up to Richie after Richie had thrown that party - after the drama had gone down with Bill and Bev, after Richie’d eventually been dragged away from Eddie, after they’d both put enough substances in their bodies to be totally and completely fucked up, after it was clear that they were both hurting. Stan had pulled Richie away, and they’d walked home together - they lived in the same general direction. Stan had tried to regain his bearings in that time. Richie had not.

 

_“Richie, I have something...I need to tell someone.”_

 

_“Did you see Eddie back there?” Richie wasn’t listening to Stan at all. “I think...I don’t know what I’m...he...why doesn’t he…”_

 

_“Richie,” Stan interjected. They were coming up on Richie’s apartment, and he needed Richie to hear him before they parted. “Hello?”_

 

_Richie turned to Stan as if noticing him for the first time. “Stan. Staniel. Stan the man.”_

 

_“Richie, I’m serious,” Stan tried. “My life is--”_

 

_“What’s wrong with me, Stan?” asked Richie, taking a few shaky steps towards him. “Nothing’s wrong with me, right? Right. I’m goddamn….beautiful.” He giggled a little bit, and then reached for Stan’s chest, pulling him in by the shirt. “You’d fuck me. Yeah?”_

 

_“Stop,” Stan said, feeling his breathing grow short, fast, panicked. “Richie, get off.”_

 

_“Let’s have sex,” Richie whispered, moving his hands down to a place that Stan really, really didn’t want them._

 

_“No!” Stan bit back the shock and the vomit that were both gathering in his stomach, gathered his strength, and shoved Richie for all he was worth. Richie went sprawling on the pavement, giggling the whole way down._

 

_“Oh, baby, I love it rough!” Richie cheered, seemingly not caring about being hurt. “C’mere--”_

 

_“Fuck you.” Stan took several quick steps away from Richie, and then turned back to him, glaring. “I needed a friend tonight.”_

 

_Richie looked back, still grinning. His eyes were distant. “You can top, if you wanna.”_

 

_That was the instant that Stan’s resolve hardened. No speaking to his friends about what was going on in his life. It wasn’t worth it._

 

_“You break my heart,” he told Richie, turning on his heel and making for his own house. “You break everyone’s heart.”_

 

They hadn’t seen each other since, and this was not exactly context for a reconciliation.

 

Still, that was the way things were looking like they were going, so instead of panicking like his body wanted him to, Stan took a deep breath, steeled himself, and chose the more logical option.

 

He opened the door.

 

As Stan expected, Richie was running at the door at full speed, trying to gain enough momentum to be able to at least make a dent in it. When he saw Stan in the doorframe, his eyes flew open wide, but he was moving too fast to be able to stop himself. Stan stepped neatly off to the side, and Richie went skidding across the living room floor, eventually sprawling out near the window.

 

“What do you want, Richard?” Stan asked once Richie had gotten his bearings and stopped cursing about his leg. Both of them winced upon hearing Stan’s voice - it was ragged and raspy, like he’d been choked, or hadn’t spoken in months.

 

“For you to be okay,” Richie answered, tone far softer than Stan had any memory of it ever being - when it was directed towards him, that was. Richie might have used his soft voice on Eddie once or twice, but never with Stan. Their relationship wasn’t like that.

 

“Fuck off.” Stan shifted against the wall so that he wasn’t looking at Richie. He knew Richie wasn’t actually going to go away, but he could pretend so long as he didn’t have to look at him.

 

“Stan my man,” Richie said, continuing in the soft voice as he crossed towards where Stan was sitting. Stan heard him walking, and tried to make himself as stiff and uninviting to sit by as possible. “This is feeling like a little bit of self-created drama, I think. Where’s your furniture?”

 

“Lost my job,” Stan told him flatly. “Lost my dad.”

 

“I know,” Richie said, and that was enough to make Stan look back at him. He hadn’t told anyone about what was going on - _especially_ not Richie after the post-party debacle. How the hell had he found out?

 

“Bev called your workplace to ask after you,” Richie continued, as if he had read Stan’s mind, “because you’d been acting crazy, and she was worried. They told her what happened, and she told us what happened.” He paused. He was right next to Stan now, sliding down the wall to sit with him, and Stan found that he almost...welcomed it. “I called your mom after that to see if she knew what was up, and I found out about the second thing.”

 

“Don’t,” Stan whispered shakily. He knew that the next thing Richie was going to do was put an arm around his shoulders, and he knew that he wasn’t going to be able to resist that touch - that he’d be a blubbering, vulnerable mess immediately, and he hated, hated, hated being vulnerable…

 

“Why didn’t you tell us?” Richie whispered, putting a hand on Stan’s shoulder. “We love you.”

 

Those last three words opened the proverbial floodgates. Stan was immediately an incoherent puddle.

 

“Richie I don’t…..” he started, trying to get his words in order. “I don’t wanna be….not a failure….my dad….did he care? Did he care about me?”

 

“Stan, I know he did.” Richie was rubbing little circles into his shoulder, trying to be as comforting as possible without crossing any lines. “I roomed with you all of freshman year, dude. That man saw me in a towel, and remained in the room - for _you_. His love for you was written all over his face, like, at all times. He was so damn proud.”

 

Stan couldn’t help but take comfort in Richie’s presence and kind words. He curled into Richie’s chest, openly sobbing and for once, for once, wanting Richie to keep talking.

 

“As for the other thing…” Richie continued, “the failure thing, you think I don’t know how that feels? I’ve lost four jobs this year, had zero committed relationships, chased off the only person that I think could have actually been good for me, love-wise, and to cap it all off, a handful of my hair came loose in this morning in the shower.” He chuckled quietly to himself. “But...well, shit. Have you ever heard of St. Elmo’s fire?”

 

“Do _not_ try and explain St. Elmo’s fire to me,” Stan warned him, words muffled and voice still a little ragged. “I’m the one that explained it to you in the first place, idiot.”

 

Richie tossed back his head and laughed, loud and joyful. “Stan the man gets off a good one! So you know what I’m gonna say.”

 

“It’s all in my head,” Stan muttered, willing himself to believe in the truth of that statement.

 

“It’s all in your head,” Richie confirmed. “Now come on. We’re gonna close these windows and take you out of here, okay? I dunno where we’re gonna go, because everyone out there except Mike is involved in some kind of blood feud, but...we’re gonna get out of here.”

 

Stan knew he should be weighing his options, but it was seeming more and more pointless by the second. His friends weren’t going to leave until he went with them - and they were going to find out if he tried this again, because they loved him. They _loved_ him.

 

He was going to have to live, whether he liked it or not.

 

(He was starting to think that he could learn to like it.)

 

\----

 

“So Ben and Bill were like, duking it out when I got there? TOTALLY out of hand. But I didn’t really get to see what happened with that, because I was busy saving the day.”

 

Richie waved his paintbrush around to emphasize his heroics, not caring about the paint splattering all over the ladder, the newspapers on the floor, and Eddie. Eddie’s nose was scrunched up, but otherwise, he seemed okay with it too.

 

He’d had a lot of people offer to take him out and about tonight, but he’d elected to stay in and help Eddie paint his new apartment. He’d had a feeling that Eddie’s place was exactly where he needed to be on his last night in Massachusetts, and that feeling was getting stronger with every passing minute.

 

God, he’d _missed_ this. He’d missed _Eddie_.

 

“And how did you do it, Captain Jackass?” Eddie stuck out his tongue at him, swirling his paintbrush around aimlessly in the tin. “And if you say one word about your giant dick--”

 

“Well, how am I supposed to give you the full story if I can’t include my giant dick?” Richie blinked innocently down at him, batting his eyelashes for good measure. “No, you’re right, I can’t be so cruel to Stan as to say that I saved him with my dick. He’d find out, and I’d be a dead man before I even got on the bus to New York.”

 

The mention of New York caused the smile to slide right off of Eddie’s face. He went back to painting over the decorative floor molding with just a little more concentration than he’d had before, and Richie’s heart felt a little bit like it had taken a hit.

 

This would be so much easier if the whole situation between them weren’t so goddamn transparent.

 

“Is Stan okay?” Eddie asked quietly after a couple of seconds of silence.

 

“He’ll be fine.” Richie climbed down from the ladder and took a seat on the floor. There was no way he was getting any more done tonight. He was far too antsy to be up on a ladder any longer. “Bev and Mike are gonna keep an eye on him while Ben and Bill work out their whole new arch-nemesis thing, and I encouraged him to call that girl at the office that he kind of had a thing for...what was her name?”

 

Eddie put down his brush for a moment, furrowing his brow as he tried to remember. “Started with a ‘P’, right?”

 

“Okay, as long as you know who I’m talking about.” Richie put his paintbrush back in the tin, and ran his paint-spotted hands back through his hair, hoping vaguely that the paint on them had dried well enough to not rub off and give him white streaks through his mop of black curls. He looked enough like the Bride of Frankenstein as it was. “Her. We’re getting him reconnected.”

 

“Cute.” Eddie smiled, turning away from the molding entirely and facing Richie. Richie couldn’t even pretend to not notice the way Eddie’s eyes kept jumping to his mouth. The tension in the air between them was starting to become ridiculous. “And he’ll get a new job soon. He’s overqualified for most entry level positions. Companies know what a catch he is.”

 

“They better,” Richie agreed, “or they’ll have the entire Republican Party up their asses, courtesy of Bill Denbrough.”

 

Eddie pantomimed raising a glass. “To powerful friends!”

 

Richie joined him in his imaginary toast. “To promoting shit you don’t believe in because it will make you more money for a wedding that your now ex-girlfriend never agreed to!”

 

Eddie snorted at that. “God. Post-grad sucks. Too much drama.”

 

“Poor Mike,” Richie agreed, scooting a little bit closer to Eddie. “Poor you. It can’t be all bad, though. I mean, look at this place.”  


Eddie flushed, obviously pleased that Richie liked the space, and scooted closer as well. “It feels really good to be out of her house. Like...I dunno. Like I can do anything, now.”

 

“You always could,” Richie told him, voice betraying the seriousness in his heart. He’d never felt like he really needed to be serious with anyone before - what was life but a couple of laughs, after all - but Eddie was different. He always had been...it had just taken Richie too long to get his head out of his ass and see it. Fuck. The timing of that realization would probably be one of Richie’s deathbed regrets. “I’m really proud of you, Eds.”

 

“I’m proud of you, too,” Eddie said, sincerity practically radiating off of him in waves. “I’m so happy you’re finally doing something that makes you happy. New York City’s not gonna know what hit it.”

 

“We’ll see if they let me play my sax at all,” Richie said mildly, hoping that he didn’t sound as nervous about that as he felt.

 

“Oh, they’ll let you play,” Eddie smiled. They were within inches of one another, now - the bottom of Eddie’s feet were practically touching the inside of Richie’s thighs where they were sprawled out in front of him. “You’re really--”

 

“Talented, Richie,” Richie finished, looking at the floor bashfully. “You’ve always been so nice about that.”

 

“I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean it,” Eddie insisted. “Honest.”

 

“I know,” Richie told him, fighting the impulse to reach out and grab the toes of Eddie’s shoes. “You’re always honest.”

 

“I try,” Eddie said softly, tapping the insides of Richie’s thighs lightly with his feet.

 

“Can you tell me the truth about one more thing?” Richie asked, nerves burning at the bottom of his stomach. He’d never been this nervous about anything before - not when he’d been arrested for DUI, not when he’d lost the pollster job, or the personal assistant job, or even the job at the coffee place...no, none of that had really mattered, in the long run.

 

This mattered.

 

“What?” Eddie asked, fear apparent in the twitch of his hands.

 

“Are you still a virgin?” Richie asked, forcing the words out of his mouth before he changed his mind.

  
Eddie stared back at him, all coy pretenses forgotten.

 

“I think you know the answer to that question,” he said, pushing himself up on to his hands and knees.

 

“Can I ask for a goodbye present, then?” Richie whispered to the inch and a half of air left between their faces.

 

Eddie’s responding kiss was answer enough.

 

Things turned heated almost immediately; once the intention had been stated, there was really no doubt in either of their minds that they were headed for the bedroom. Richie led Eddie there, walking him backwards to the best of his ability while keeping their mouths connected, not wanting to miss a second of time. Eddie ran into the hamper and tripped over a dirty t-shirt on the journey, but Richie figured those were acceptable sacrifices in the face of what they were about to do.

 

When they reached the bedroom, Eddie broke away and kicked off his shoes. He climbed up on the bed and positioned himself in the middle of it, looking a little like he was trying to be sexy and a lot like he was trying to hide being nervous.

 

“Is this what you want?” asked Richie, wanting to make absolutely sure.

 

Eddie stared at him for a moment, and then nodded slowly.

 

“I want it to be you,” he said resolutely, and that was exactly what Richie wanted to hear. He pulled his shirt over his head, and then crawled his way over Eddie in a way that he hoped was sexy.

 

“What do you want me to do, sweetheart?” Richie asked, smiling down at Eddie and taking in his flushed cheeks, shallow breathing, and wide, wide eyes.

 

“Kiss me,” Eddie breathed, and Richie happily acquiesced, slipping a leg in between Eddie’s to start generating some friction. Eddie gasped and arched into the contact, which made Richie groan into his mouth. God, he was so mad they’d waited so long to do this.

 

“Off,” Richie requested, moving a hand down and tugging at the hem of Eddie’s paint-splattered t-shirt. Eddie sat up and removed the garment, almost getting his head stuck in the process, and Richie couldn’t help but laugh.

 

“Hey, fuck off,” Eddie grumbled when he finally disentangled himself, but he was smiling, so Richie knew better than to move away. “Can’t make fun of me when you’ve got paint in your hair.”

 

“Fuck.” Richie sat back on his heels and put his hands in his hair, searching for the offending strands. “Where?”

 

Eddie moved up to meet him. “Here,” he said, and tugged lightly at a handful of Richie’s hair, pulling him back down on top of him.

 

If the resulting whine that Richie let slip was any indication, Eddie had stumbled upon a kink that not even Richie had discovered for himself yet. He’d definitely be filing that away for later.

 

They resumed rutting against each other, both so desperate for friction that they spent a good two minutes humping each other erratically, trying to find a rhythm. Finally, Richie stopped them, determining that they needed to lose their pants before they both came and made a mess, and Eddie quickly agreed, so they spent a moment pulling off their jeans. Richie’s eyes were glued to Eddie the entire time, but Eddie was more bashful and kept his gaze solidly fixed on the far wall.

 

“Eds,” Richie said quietly, placing a hand on the small of his back. “Hey. You’re allowed to look.”

 

Eddie slowly turned around, and his eyes immediately fell to Richie’s dick like they were magnetically attracted to it. He swallowed hard, and _oh_ , Richie definitely knew that kind of swallow.

 

“Anything you want, okay?” Richie gestured to his dick, unable to keep himself from smirking a little.

 

Eddie wet his bottom lip with his tongue. “Uh. Can I--”

 

“Anything,” Richie repeated, and then all coherent thought rushed out of his brain as Eddie experimentally licked at the head of his cock.

 

“Like this?” Eddie asked, all doe-eyes and earnestness, and closed his mouth around Richie.

 

“God, yes,” Richie hissed, pushing his hand through Eddie’s hair and squeezing his eyes shut, trying to memorize the moment. “Now just a little bit of--”

 

Eddie didn’t even need to be told. He started bobbing his head, and Richie leaned back on his hands, cursing wildly. He'd honestly not expected much of Eddie's mouth, given that it was his first time. He'd have settled for the usual virgin teeth confusion and some overenthusiastic gagging, but apart from one brief accidental push of Richie's hips into Eddie's throat, Eddie more than held his own.  All of the time he spent sucking on his inhaler as a kid must have really paid off.

 

He pulled Eddie off before things got too serious, because he’d promised something and he intended on keeping that promise, goddamn it.

 

“You’re doing so well, baby,” he said breathlessly, and reveled in the way Eddie’s face lit up at the words. “Do you have any lube, hm?”

 

Eddie seemed almost embarrassed to tell him. “Um. Yes, a little. In the bathroom, on the box on top of the toilet that I haven’t unpacked yet.”

 

“Okay,” Richie said, and then in the interest of honesty, followed that up with, “I wanna really open you up, take your virginity in every way that counts. You good with that?”

 

Eddie immediately turned bright red all the way down to his navel. _Cute_ , Richie’s caveman brain shouted. “Shouldn’t I have, um. Shouldn’t I have done something? To prepare?”

 

Richie smiled to himself. Of course Eddie’s immediate thoughts were about cleanliness. “How’re you feeling right now?”

 

“Good,” Eddie said slowly. “Normal, I think?”

 

“Then we should be okay. I’ll be back in a second with lube and a condom. Don’t move,” Richie told him, hustling to the bathroom to fish through Eddie’s stuff for the lube, and then back to the bedroom to check his own pants for the condom in his wallet. When he looked back at the bed again, having finally procured the necessary materials, he was treated to the sight of his life: Eddie lightly fisting his own cock, eyelids heavy and lips bitten red. He looked completely debauched, and Richie stared at him for a good thirty seconds, trying to take a mental photo.

 

“Please,” Eddie said at last, and Richie really couldn’t be blamed for the desperate noise he made at that. He coated his fingers with lube, warmed them up as best he could, and then positioned the first one at the rim of Eddie’s hole.

 

“Ready, Spaghetti?”

 

“Oh my fucking God,” Eddie groaned, meeting his eyes...and then they were off.

 

For the rest of his life, Richie would be playing scenes of that night in his brain in slow motion: the way Eddie had writhed in front of him when Richie was stretching him open, the quiet little hiss of his breath when Richie pushed into him at last, the way Eddie began to open up as pain started to give way to pleasure, the beautiful look on Eddie’s face when he came into Richie's hand a few minutes after Richie pulled out.

 

It was over far too soon.

 

“Okay?” Richie asked after they’d cleaned up and settled in Eddie’s bed. Eddie had his head on Richie’s chest, and was tapping a beat into the space just below Richie’s collarbone.

 

“Yeah.” Eddie hummed, nuzzling further into Richie’s chest. “My heart hurts.”

  
“Mine too,” Richie whispered, clutching at Eddie’s back like he was about to disappear.

 

“But you have to go,” Eddie said matter-of-factly. “You don’t belong here.”

 

“I’ll come back for you,” he promised, scooting down to kiss the top of Eddie’s head.

 

“Maybe,” Eddie murmured, the beginnings of sleep beginning to worm their way into his voice. “Maybe not. Just as long as you know that I love you.”

 

Richie froze. What did that mean - _love_? How was he supposed to respond to something he didn’t even understand?

 

“I know,” Richie said after a moment of heartwrenching contemplation, “and I think I might...Eddie, I might…”

 

Eddie didn’t react or respond. He was already asleep.

 

“Oh, you know well enough,” Richie finally sighed, and turned out the light.

 

\----

 

The last time that the Lucky Seven were all together was at the bus stop, seeing Richie off.

 

It was a bittersweet moment, Mike thought. On the one hand, Richie was finally making moves for himself, and none of them could begrudge him that, but on the other…

 

...well, it was very clear that none of them were quite ready to be separated.

 

The bus left at an ungodly hour of the morning, so they hadn’t arrived at the station any earlier than they’d had to, and as such, the bus was there before anyone was prepared to begin the goodbyes. It was left to Richie to go down the line and part with everyone individually, and Richie, for once, took to the task immediately.

 

He went to Ben first, and Ben stuck out his hand to shake. “Forgive me, Rich. You know I’m not a hugger.” When Richie pulled away, he had a small bottle of some kind of amber liquid in his hand. “And that’s for the road.”

 

“Much obliged, Benny Boy,” Richie grinned. “I better make an appearance in that Great American Novel of yours.”

 

“You’ll be the main character,” Ben promised, smiling.

 

“Hey.” Bev was next. She kissed Richie soundly on the corner of his mouth, and then pulled a carton of cigarettes out of her jacket. “I’m gonna miss you, idiot.”

 

Richie examined the cigarettes fondly. “Oh, Bevvie. Just like the old days, huh? Our little cigarette breaks, our jaunts through town?”

 

“Of course,” she affirmed. “Winston tastes good…”.

 

“Just like a cigarette should,” he finished. “I love you, sweetheart.”

 

“Go make me proud,” she said, and passed him off to Stan, who was standing with a somewhat wary Patricia Blum, who he had breakfast plans with immediately after they were due to send Richie off.

  
Stan gave Richie a bigger hug than Mike had seen Stan give anyone in his whole life.

 

“Thank you,” Stan told him, clasping Richie’s shoulders in his hands, and they all knew how much weight those two words carried.

 

“St. Elmo’s fire,” Richie said, staring down at Stan meaningfully. Stan nodded, and then Richie was heading Mike’s way. Mike almost pushed him back - he wasn’t ready, would never be ready for this moment.

 

Instead, he embraced him, trying to pour love out into Richie’s crazy, lanky body. “You’re beautiful, Rich. Never shave.”

 

Richie pulled back and touched Mike’s nose lightly with his finger. Mike couldn’t help but laugh at that - it was a distinctively Richie gesture. “Don’t go changing, Micycle….to try and please me.”

 

“Billy Joel?” Mike made a face to try and disguise the fact that tears were beginning to form behind his eyes. “Weak.”

 

“I love you just the way you are,” Richie affirmed, catching his gaze one last time before turning to Bill.

 

“Don’t f-fuck this up,” Bill warned, but his eyes were glassy, and everyone knew it, including and especially Richie, who leaned in to whisper something in Bill’s ear before he moved on. Mike didn’t catch it exactly, but it sounded a lot like _“Don’t let her go”_ , which Mike had...conflicting feelings about.

 

That didn’t matter, though, because Richie was heading towards Eddie, and everyone immediately sucked in a huge breath. No one was really sure where they were with their feelings for each other, but now...now wasn’t about celebrating what was there. It was about letting go of it.

 

Eddie’s eyes were glassy, too, but he was holding it together incredibly well. He smiled up at Richie, genuinely proud, and Richie lurched forward and tugged him in, enveloping him in the mother of all embraces. He pushed back Eddie’s black beanie hat and kissed the top of his head, and in that moment, they all knew - they had reached some kind of understanding.

 

“I’ll write,” Richie said quietly, voice wobbly with tears.

 

“No you won’t,” Eddie laughed, wiping his own eyes.

 

The bus engine started, and Richie jumped, looking at each of them one more time as if trying to see if any of them would stop him; would keep him from doing this awesome, terrifying, crazy thing.

 

None of them would. They loved him too much to selfishly try to keep him.

 

“Goodbye,” Richie said, walking slowly backwards towards the bus.

 

“Goodbye,” they chorused softly, watching him go until he had boarded and disappeared into the depths of the vehicle. Most everyone turned away after that, except for Eddie. Mike watched Eddie’s eyes track the bus as it pulled out and began driving down the street, and he knew that on the bus, Richie was doing the same thing.

 

Mike hoped they’d find their way back to one another someday.

 

He turned his attention back to the rest of the group to find Bev trying to mediate between Ben and Bill. “I just don’t think it’s a good idea for me to be in a relationship right now, you know? But I still want to be friends. Can we try and all be friends?”

 

It was clear that Ben and Bill were not yet at that stage of forgiveness, but they looked at each other, then at her, and then back at each other, and seemed to reach an agreement - _do it for her._

 

“I mean...yeah,” Ben said, shrugging and looking away.  


“I guess,” Bill agreed, crossing his arms.

 

“Do we wanna go to St. Elmo’s?” Eddie had finally torn his eyes away from the street and rejoined the conversation. “It’s just about time for breakfast, or whatever.”

 

Mike thought about it, and was surprised to realize that he wasn’t really feeling like going. Around him, it seemed that his friends were in the same boat.

 

“I’m taking Patty out, so not me,” Stan said, squeezing Patty’s hand.

 

“Yeah, I’ve got work to do,” Mike said quickly.

 

“Me too,” Ben echoed.

 

“Me three,” Bill said, “so can we agree to maybe do b-brunch on Sunday or something? If everyone can make some t-t-time?”

 

“Sure,” Stan acquiesced, “but maybe...not at St. Elmo’s this time?”

 

Everyone gaped at him, waiting for an explanation.

 

“Too crowded,” he offered, “too many kids.”

 

They all cracked a smile at that. Bev nodded.

 

“Sunday at Houlihans, then?”

 

They all murmured their assent and started to drift apart, each heading to a different place - and Mike found himself struck by the image of everyone splitting up.

 

Infinity with your friends, he realized in that instant, was a lot shorter than he’d thought - but it had been an infinity all the same, a special moment that they’d all existed in that would live on forever in each of them - in their hearts, their minds, and their actions. They’d been shaped by one another.

 

That chapter was closed now, but their new infinity was due to start at Sunday at Houlihans.

 

Mike couldn’t wait.

**Author's Note:**

> whew.  
> thanks for bearing with me.
> 
> gimme a shout if you made it this far in the comments or at skeletonscribbles.tumblr.com <3


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